Unlooked For Beauty
by Idril Silmaril
Summary: PrePOTO to PostPOTO. Erik and Giry discover love during misunderstandings, hardships and cruelties. My first phic. Will be quite long. Please read and review. Rating for future chapters.
1. Beginnings

_A/N: Hello. This is my first phic. Hope you enjoy! I made Erik and Giry have a two year age difference, sorry if that conflicts with anyone's views on the matter. . **Pairing in this phic will be strictly Erik/Giry **_

She turned from him, and wandered back up the dank staircase that glowed with an eerie phosphorescent light. He had spoken of nothing and everything in his simple confession. He wanted to own the Opera House. She cried, a few tears streamed down her pale face. She should have known…she should have been more careful.

"But Erik." She had said, "You cannot own the Opera House. It belongs to Debienne and Poligny." She stormed restlessly, trying to avoid the hideous face that looked back at her with questioning in its eyes.

"You do not see." He had replied, his face grim with determination. "With my music," he brandished a folio of sheet music bearing his elegant handwriting. "They would have beauty so splendid it would bring the house down." He rambled on excitedly, playing quick snippets of his melodies on his ebony piano. "Giry, you will understand one day, when I shall be famous and beautiful, no longer a hated fiend!"

"You are not a hated fiend." She had said. "No one hates you." She had lied.

"What about them?" Erik had gesticulated wildly, throwing his hands back in exasperation. "They beat me, caused me to become…nothing but a beast."

"You are not a beast." Giry had begun, but Erik cut her off.

"Of course I am! What with this corpse that I bear?" he pointed wildly at his face.

"What I mean is," she had said. "Wait. Just wait. I will speak with Debienne and Poligny, and maybe, maybe they will hear your opera."

Still crying, she moved up the stairs, her dress sweeping the cold stone floor. Erik had not wanted to see her afterwards, but to come in the gondola when she had received an answer from the managers. How could she return? Erik would have her head for this. Of course no manager wished to have pieces composed by a phantom, an opera ghost. And anyway, she was nothing but a young ballerina. She had no say in such a matter. Debienne listened only to great connoisseurs, Poligny to his many mistresses. A little ballerina could not say much to great men such as these. But she had always requested Erik's salary, and she had received it. Giry pondered this for a few minutes, and laughed despite her tears. With great persistency she had begged for Erik's salary, bowing down to the two distinguished Monsieurs, explaining her mother was ill, saying she could not last, that a priest was to be summoned for the final rites. Her mother, she had remembered, had been dead for five years the first time she did this. She remembered handing the few francs to Erik, and both of them smiling, but Erik's had been a pained smile.

Bundling herself in a shawl, she raced up the stairs, tripping over the grime and broken flagstone. If she had such powers within her, why not use them to please her only friend? And the work of a genius was much sought after, even if the great operas like _The Marriage of Figaro_ and _Rigoletto_ were played. Erik, in truth, was only sixteen, and his operas held a brilliance and darkness that no man today could match. His passion spoke through the notes on the page, and his bereavement was magnified throughout each passing bar.

Giry met with the head maid of the opera house, a stern, nasty woman named Agatha Emerson. She was an English immigrant who had come when her father made his money on the Opera Populaire's stage. It was rumored, however, that he had met a dastardly end when he was old and weary, but still forced his presence upon the spectators. Erik had disliked his voice so much that he had killed him, feeding him poison with the help of Giry. They had only been ten and twelve years old, respectively, and had not really known what the liquid would have done. Erik had heard from the man he had bought it that it was a type of soda that was used to cure a sore throat. The effects proved otherwise. Emerson had been twenty-five at the time, and it had caused her great grief. Thus, she restricted herself to working in the house of her father's death. But she was suspicious of Giry forever afterwards, and constantly badgered her with questions.

"What have you been doing?" she asked in a harsh voice.

"Nothing." Replied Giry, turning a ghastly parchment colour.

"What were you doing in the cellar?" asked Agatha, her voice more insistent.

"My cat," said Giry, "Went down into the cellar. I could not find him. That is why I am weeping."

Agatha gave a raspy grunt of recognition, but her eyes remained shifty.

Giry continued along the hallway, going in the direction of Poligny's private offices. She knocked politely with the brass knocker, and opened the door when she heard Poligny's distinct, pompous voice.

"Enter!" he cried, and she as obedient to his request.

He was shuffling many papers on his desk, as well as vast sums of money, a golden inkwell lay on its side, an ink stain slowly blotting itself onto his white sleeve.

"Monsieur." Giry giggled. She had hardly ever seen such a well-to-do man in a state of utter chaos. "Your sleeve Monsieur."

He looked up, and swore, which did not startle Giry.

"Damn it! My new, best shirt!" he looked up at her almost threateningly, as if daring another laugh to pass her lips. "What do you want, Mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur, a man I am an acquaintance with desires you to view his work." She said simply.

"Ah. A young prodigy? A critique, I presume?" he seemed delighted.

"No, Monsieur. He has written an opera. He desires you to perform it."

"And does this gentleman you speak of have a name?" said Poligny rather teasingly.

"He wishes to remain anonymous."

"Do you have the score with you?" asked Poligny.

"No, Monsieur, I do not have it."

"Very well." He sighed. "Speak with your charming friend and we shall see what is to be done."

Giry nodded, and swept from the room, her feet gracing the floor with nimble steps. She sprinted back down into the caverns of the opera house, and ran to the black gondola.

"Erik!" she called through the gloom. "I have news!"

She jumped into the gondola, and pushed it along the water with a long pole. It creaked a little when she went into it, as if it was falling apart. She pushed harder with the pole, as a gentle stream of water trickled into the boat. Just as she stepped from it one of the planks gave way, and, in desperation, she hauled it out of the water.

"Erik," she said, sloshing through the water. "You must really think of building a new boat."

"I see." He replied tersely, looking up from his work. "What did you say to the honorable Monsieurs?" his words spat sarcasm.

"Please, Erik. They are not bad gentleman. Poligny has even requested to see the work."

Erik's face brightened a little, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face.

"And my salary?" he asked.

"I have not yet asked for that." Replied Giry. "But I will in time, when I return to them."

"I see." Said Erik. "Here." He thrust the folio into Giry's hands. "Take it, and take care of it. It is an original."

"But, Erik, your gondola. I cannot get back."

Erik said nothing and led her into his bedroom, with the elegantly carved swan-shaped bed and the blood-red brocade cushions. In one smooth motion he lifted a curtain by the back wall, and there was a small set of stairs, illuminated with candles, leading up towards light.

"Take this path." He said. "In the meantime. I will repair my gondola eventually."

Giry gave a nod, and wandered up the staircase, a lone white figure against the darkness of the passageway and Erik's soul.


	2. Antoinette

_A/N: Thanks to my first and **only** reviewer Queen-Chick! Many blessings. Hope to update a chapter a day. _**Disclaimer: I do not own POTO (but Erik lives in my closet! HA!)**

Giry raced up the staircase, listening to Erik's heartfelt chords that sounded out on his piano. She did not understand it, but she felt some longing deep within the darkest part of her heart. She tiptoed with the lightness of a faerie, her silk ballet shoes gracing the dust on the floor.

With anxiety and nervousness she stepped into Poligny's office. He was talking with his co-worker, Debienne, and had a furtive air on his face.

"Well, Mlle. Giry, back so soon?" he said in a curious voice. "That did not take you very long." His eyebrows raised in a suspicious but comical way.

"Yes, Monsieur." She curtsied politely to Debienne, who gave her a stiff nod.

"You may speak with M. Poligny." He said quietly. "I have much to do in my private offices."

With a fleeting glance, he made his way to his offices, laughing politely at a comment made in an undertone by Poligny.

"Now, Mlle. Giry." Said Poligny. "What is it you have brought me?"

Giry looked at Poligny with a questioning, almost pathetic glance. Could the man have forgotten the opera proposal so quickly?

"Monsieur." She said slowly. "The opera."

"Oh yes. That. Well, let me see it then." He gestured with an open palm.

Giry nodded, and placed the score of Erik's opera into the man's hands with trembling fingers.

"It is an original." She said, her voice faltering in her throat.

Poligny nodded, carefully opening the black leather cover with a deft hand. He looked slightly amused at first, and then quizzical.

"_Juliette Lost_?" he said with amusement. "Rather fanciful."

Giry nodded, slowly. Her eyes began to brighten. Poligny flipped through a few of the pages, and chuckled softly too himself.

"Debienne!" he cried. "I believe we have found ourselves an opera!"

He rushed from the room, with excitement glowing from his eyes. Giry followed with timid, wandering footsteps. Poligny had seized Debienne by his elbow, and was leading him down the steps into the huge theatre. A few stray ballerinas, none of Giry's friends, for she had none, were waltzing slowly around the stage; giggling.

"Mademoiselles." Said Debienne primly. "Please step aside."

They looked at him with skeptical eyes, and moved into the wings.

"Where is the conductor?" asked Debienne hurriedly. "He should be here, if they have a rehearsal."

The conductor popped his head out of the orchestra pit.

"So sorry gentlemen." He apologized. "What is it you ask of me?"

"Will you look this score over?" asked Poligny, shoving the music into the conductor's hands, crumpling the pages and making Giry wince, though she did not understand why.

The conductor tapped his baton rapidly, and instructed the orchestra to sight read the overture of Erik's opera.

Giry was astounded. His work was so passionate and haunting, even as a sight-read overture played by an out-of-tune orchestra. The notes imitated vivacious fireworks and the deadness of a graveyard in one smooth motion. In a second, she began to dance, feeling the music pulsing, living, in her very veins. She swirled to the music, feeling the breeze flying around her arms. Her hair whipped against her shoulders, and her heart almost burst with glee. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her only friend, Erik, standing at the back of the theatre, silent, with a questioning glance in his eyes. She stopped immediately, embarrassed.

Erik turned silently from her, moving away with a flick of his cape that fluttered gently against his legs. In an instant he was gone, and Giry breathed a sigh of relief. _If the managers had caught him…_she thought restlessly, _it would be over. Everything. Over. _She heard Poligny's imperious voice over her thoughts.

"I don't like it." He said simply.

Giry's eyes welled with tears. They streamed down her face, uncontrollable. With a hasty hand she brushed them away.

"Please, may I have the score back?" she asked, trying hard not to weep.

"Of course, Mademoiselle Giry." He said, thrusting the music back into Giry's hands.

"Please, Monsieur. My mama is still sick. May I have some money for the doctor?" she whispered.

"Of course, Mademoiselle." He said. "My heartfelt sympathies."

From his pocket he extracted fifty francs, the largest sum she had ever received. Her eyes widened, and she sniffed, pulling back the sob that was about to escape from her lips.

In desperation she hurried from the theatre and down the same passageway she had come up. Her heart descended with her feet, and her cries echoed in the walls of the catacombs. Erik, hearing her, looked up, perplexingly.

"What is it, Giry?" he asked.

"They have refused your opera." She said, her eyes misting.

"Fools!" he cried. "Curse them! May the hell fires descend upon them!"

"Erik," she pleaded. "Please."

She rushed up to him, and he took back _Juliette Lost_ with a flourish.

"But I do have your salary." She sniffed, extracting the fifty francs from her dress.

"Nothing is sufficient. Giry why? Why do they hate me?"

She looked at him sadly.

"I don't know, Erik, I don't know." Her voice faltered in her throat.

"They shall die." He whispered. "This is no longer _their_ Opera House. It is **mine**."

He rushed to an adjoining room, a brought out a noose.

"Erik, please, no." said Giry. "They do not understand."

He just looked at her with blank eyes. She threw herself on top of him, trying to wrestle the lasso out of his hands.

"ERIK!" she screamed. "NO!"

With a furious tug, she pulled the lasso out of his hands. He looked at her askance.

"Why, Antoinette?" he whispered. "Do none of them care for me?"

Despite the pain she felt, Giry's heart felt a little flutter. _He had called her Antoinette._

_A/N: Don't know where the title **Juliette Lost** came from. I was being creative. And I don't know if Erik ever wrote such an opera. _


	3. One Refusal Too Many

_A/N: Thank you so much to Queen-Chick and QueenSarah. You guys are the best! Since you both like the story so much, I will continue to update, even if you remain my only reviewers. If you see anything that freaks you out, or if any of the characters seem OOC, please let me know, I and will try to fix it. _

The following week after the operatic disaster, as both Giry and Erik termed it, Erik himself laboriously penned out a letter in the early hours of the morning. He sat on his silk sheets, his face unmasked and his brow furrowed in silent thought and fury.

_To the honorable and distinguished Monsieurs Debienne and Poligny,_

_It has come to my attention that my recent opera, **Juliette Lost**, was rejected by you esteemed managers. I am deeply sorrowful on this account. Therefore, I shall make one amiable and gentlemanly request. If you do not show my opera, be prepared for an untimely accident regarding a number of your ballerinas, and also the commencement of my ownership of the Opera Populaire. _

_With fondest regards,_

_O.G. _

Satisfied, Erik let out a slight, haunting laugh of triumph.

"Fools." He said. "If they refuse my request…well, we shall see."

Giry, meanwhile, was practicing her dancing on the stage of the opera house. She twirled gaily to an invisible sound she alone heard. It was last week's strains of Erik's opera. It had possessed her, silently but surely, and it never let her go. It was constantly on her mind, as she could feel Juliette's lamentations speak from every note. It had been etched into her mind like a horrific death, and it consumed her. "Play me the opera." She would say to Erik every night, after dinner, when she came to converse with her friend. It took hold of her, and she reeled in delight every time she heard it.

With startling pirouettes she made her way across the stage, so rapidly and so gracefully that the other ballet girls strayed from the wings and admired her poised arms and her graceful, entreating steps. She paid them no heed, and kept on swirling past them, but she heard their whispers.

"Maybe we should tell Monsieur Debienne." Whispered one cautiously.

"Pah!" interjected another. "She is simply enamored of something. I can see it. It's in her eyes."

"But to dance like that…" trailed off the youngest one.

"Shut up, will you!" said the second girl who had spoken. "Who wants Giry as prima ballerina?"

"True." Muttered the little one submissively. "She isn't that good. And besides, I want to be prima ballerina. I deserve it." She had lied. She was the worst dancer of the whole Opera Populaire.

"Oh, you, Kathrine, you dance like a whore!" laughed another ballerina. "How can you expect to become prima ballerina?"

All the while Giry was dancing, and the words of her compatriots became nothing but noise in her mind. All she could hear was the sound of Erik's opera, which was almost tangible. The ballerinas retreated when she had stopped pirouetting and moved away, laughing their thoughts into oblivion. But the youngest, Kathrine, stood still, and watched Giry with staring eyes.

"Well, what is it?" Giry asked sharply, staring back at the girl with a ferocious glare.

"Giry, you dance well." She said. "At least, that's what I think, but the others disagree with me."

Giry looked at her wryly, as if daring her to say anything more.

"Thank you." She said through pursed lips.

Kathrine paused for a minute, then hurried off laughing to find her cronies. Giry herself stiffened. She had never received a compliment from any ballet girl. It seemed strange. The others called her 'the dark child', and sometimes mocked her because of the fact she was so solitary. With a repressing sigh, she wandered off the stage and moved into the audience, among the red velvet chairs. Tiptoeing softly, she made her way down into Erik's lair.

The gondola, she noticed, had been repaired so it was in splendid condition, the black paint gleaming and the small lamps glowing with candlelight. Stepping into the gondola, she grabbed onto the pole with her hand, and pushed herself along the muddy bottom of the lake.

"Erik," she whispered, for it was still early in the morning, and sometimes he had a tendency to sleep late.

She stepped from the gondola and looked around his underground home. The walls glistened with the moisture of centuries, and all of the candles were lit.

"Erik?" she whispered again, and went into his bedroom.

He was lying, fast asleep from being up all night, on the red silk sheets of his bed. His mask was off, but Giry did not retreat in horror. It was nothing, just a face. Giry examined his form carefully, the white shirt, the black trousers, and even his boots, which he had forgotten to remove. He looked so peaceful, and yet his soul was filled with an inner turmoil so sad tears misted in her eyes.

"Giry," she whispered to herself. "Stop crying, you fool. What would he say?"

Even with her quiet word of reprimand Erik did not stir. With a soft hand, she traced the deformed part of his face with her fingertips.

"Poor soul." She whispered, and sniffed a little. "Do not cry Giry. How many times must I tell you?"

While doing so, she noticed the letter, which lay upon the silk sheets. With trepidation she read it, and suddenly her face went pale.

"Oh, Erik." She said softly. "You must not, you must not do this."

With one smooth motion she woke Erik up, gracing his hand with hers.

"Begone!" he shouted, waking up with a start. "Oh, Antoinette. It is you."

"Yes." She said slowly. "Erik, what is this?" she brandished the letter in his face.

Erik did not answer her question, but hastily put on his mask.

"I do not mean to frighten you." He apologized hurriedly.

"You need not put your mask on." She said. "It holds no horror for me."

Erik tensed for a moment, and then slowly removed his mask, as though he was reopening an old wound.

"It does not pain you to stare into the face of a beast?" he said.

"You are not a beast." She said. "But what is this?" she forced the letter under his nose again.

"It is a letter of request, as you can plainly see." Said Erik irritably.

"I was ashamed when they refused your opera. But do not blame them. They do not understand you."

"I wish you to take it to them. May the horror of the Opera Ghost plague them."

Giry did not move, but merely looked at her compatriot.

"Go, damn it Antoinette!" he cried. "Show it to them!"

"No." she said defiantly.

"Why not?"

"Do you not understand that they shall know that I have connections with you?" she asked, exasperated. "My career will be ruined!"

"You are not ashamed they did not hear my opera. You are ashamed because you know the Opera Ghost!"

"No I am not." Replied Giry forcefully. "I am not. You know this."

"Then go." He repeated fiercely.

"But, I cannot." She whispered. "I cannot. I would never see you in jail."

"Me? What about you? You just want to save your own skin, liar!"

Giry said nothing, but moved away from him, slowly retreating, carefully shuffling her feet backwards.

"I will go. I will deliver your letter." She said. "I will prove it to you."

With heart beating, she raced up the catacomb's staircase, and into Debienne's office.

"Monsieur Debienne." She said timidly. "I have a letter, from an anonymous man."

"What is it?' Debienne sighed, and took the letter. He did not see much, just scanned the letter briefly. "_Juliette Lost_?" he asked. "Not again. I will not see the confounded opera! Mlle. Giry, tell your friend I shall not see his opera!"

Giry nodded, and left the room.

_A/N: So, what did you think? Maybe there will be romance in the next chapter…_


	4. Ballet Rats and Smouldering Fire

_A/N: Thank you so much to MadameGiryMiranda. Reviews are always appreciated. And I wouldn't forget Queen-Chick and QueenSarah. Honestly, you are wonderful. Maybe a touch of romance in this chapter ;) to fill your desire. _

Erik had waited four long years, his opera slowly dragging into oblivion. But he constantly played for Giry, for it was the only thing she would listen to. And as Erik grew more impatient, the lust for the kill became stronger.

Giry had notified Erik the minute of Debienne's refusal. She had cried with him, welling tears of remorse, solitude, and overpowering love. She did not understand her thoughts. It must have been something she ate, over four years ago, that caused her to act in such a way. Her heart leapt into her throat every instant she saw his face, even his malformed side she looked upon with joy, knowing that it was he. She wondered day after day if he returned the favor, begging silently to God.

It was in the early morning hours that she found four dead bodies of her compatriots in the darkened theatre. She had come to dance to the mute chords of Erik's opera, and instead found a horror beyond her imagination. The girl who had insulted her those previous four years, the girl called Renee, hung from a rafter, her eyes closed, but mouth agape in silent surprise. Fille, the younger of Renee's two sisters lay on the floor in a misshapen heap, her eyes open with muted terror. Another girl, she did not know her name, lay draped upon one of the sets they were using in an opera. And finally, little Kathrine, now twelve, was stone-cold on the floor with a deaf scream and eyes of dismay that greeted Giry's senses. Upon the floor there lay a note.

_Four ballet rats for the four years in which you made me suffer. _

_O.G. _

_P.S. I request that Antoinette Giry may be appointed to the post of prima ballerina. Or I shall kill again. _

Giry's swollen eyes tore from the note, and her sobs echoed through the theatre.

"Curse him." She muttered. "Why?"

With the courage that was left in her, she made her way to see Debienne and Poligny. She knocked on Poligny's door, and was surprised to find him flirting with one of his many mistresses.

"Michelle." He murmured, caressing her neck. "Michelle."

Giry cleared her throat obstinately, and made a small curtsey to the manager and his mistress.

"Monsieur, there is something I need to speak with you about."

"Well, speak up Mademoiselle." He said, put off by her interruption of his romance. "What is it?"

"The ballerinas are dead." She said with solemnity.

"What?" he said, exasperated.

"It is true." She whispered. "Come, Monsieur Poligny."

Normally it was uncouth for a ballerina to tell the manager what to do, but he paid no heed to the formality of the issue. Silently, he took her hand, and she led him down to the stage.

"My God." He whispered when he saw the girls' bodies on the stage. "Debienne!" he cried aloud.

"Please, Monsieur." Interrupted Giry. "I have a note, from the Opera Ghost."

Poligny's eyes scanned the letter, and his mouth fell agape with disbelief. Debienne came rushing in at his side, and looked with fear at the four young women.

"So the Opera Ghost exists?" he said, after he read the letter twice over.

"Yes." Said Poligny. "Indeed it seems true."

"Someone fetch the coroner." Said Debienne hurriedly. "At once!"

"I shall." Said Giry quietly.

"Good Mademoiselle." Said Debienne. "In the Rue St-Fauborg he is."

Giry bundled herself into her black shawl and donned her walking boots. In a fury she marched out of the Opera Populaire with an air of distinct and mournful purpose.

"Erik," she murmured, "I thought I loved you. Now I'm not so sure. Erik, sweet Erik."

She repeated this phrase until she reached the coroner's workplace. He was an old man, draped in black, seating on a wooden stool, but graced it like a throne. Coffins adorned the walls of the shop, and a single, human skull leered back at Giry from the mantelpiece.

"What do you wish for, Mademoiselle?" he said with a smooth, aristocratic accent.

"I wish you to come to the Opera Populaire." She said, "A few deaths must be recorded."

"Ah. I see. Emergency call?" asked the coroner.

"Yes." Giry gulped.

Giry led the man back to the Opera Populaire, still repeating the silent phrase in her head. In about twenty minutes they reached the Opera House, with its noble architecture and Grecian columns.

"Enter." She said to the coroner. "The managers shall wish to see you."

Giry ushered the coroner into the theatre, where Poligny and Debienne were still in awe over the bodies.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Giry." Said Poligny. "Now." He said, turning to the coroner. "These deaths need a bit of explaining."

"Fair enough." Said the coroner with a noble but toothless smile.

Debienne silently gestured to Giry, and handed her a small, handwritten note.

"Thank you, Monsieur." She said, and he nodded silently.

She stowed the note in her pocket, and asked Debienne permission to go back to her room. He allowed her, but she took a meandering detour. With apprehension she took nervous steps down to the underground lake. The gondola was there, and she pushed herself across the lonely waters. Erik was sitting at the piano, a single tear streaking across his masked face.

"Oh Erik." She said. "How could you?"

"They denied me the request." He said stubbornly. "Four long years I waited, and nothing ever became of it. Thank heaven I still have the original, or it would be lost in shadow."

"But Erik." She began.

"No more buts, Antoinette!" he seethed at her. "It is my ruined life, I can live it in whichever way I want. I own the Opera Populaire."

"It seems you do." Admitted Giry, sitting down beside him, and taking the note out of her pocket.

"What is that?" asked Erik, gesturing to the note with a slight movement of his wrist.

"I do not know." She said slowly.

"Open it." Commanded Erik.

Giry obeyed, and read the contents of the letter.

_Dear Mlle. Giry,_

_In light of the actions of the Opera Ghost, it is my esteemed and heartfelt honor to appoint you to the position of prima ballerina. I hope you have many blessings during your outstanding career representing the Opera Populaire, and may you forever grace the stage of this theatre. _

_With fond regards,_

_Monsieur Debienne _

"Oh Erik!" she cried enthusiastically, completely forgetting the circumstances. "Oh Erik!"

Without the slightest hesitation, she leaned forward and kissed Erik on the lips. She broke off immediately, and continued on rampantly.

"It will be marvelous! Just think, me, prima ballerina! Oh, thank you Erik!"

"Antoinette, why, pray tell, did you kiss me?" asked Erik with a slight snicker.

She stared at him.

"I am sorry Erik." She said, holding her head in her hands. "I am so stupid."

"You mean you could love…such a monster?' he asked shyly, forgetting his headstrong, passionate manner.

"You are no monster Erik." She whispered.

She touched her lips with his, gracing them fondly. Soon, it became more passionate, and Erik's tongue fondled her lips, timidly asking entry. She obeyed with the generosity of her age, and let Erik's skilled hands touch her face and neck. With passion she traced a line around the outline of his mask, and tore it recklessly from him. He did not care, did not even wince, the passion was too strong. Finally, they broke away, her breathing fast and quick, his heavy and passionate.

"Goodnight," she murmured. "Erik, sweet Erik."

"Goodnight," he replied. "My angel Antoinette."

Later that night, Giry fell gracefully into her bed. She could not forget the deaths, but they remained in the dim, subconscious of her mind. Under her pillow she found a note, written deftly in Erik's familiar handwriting.

_Antoinette, _

_My angel. I shall never know how I survived without your love. Peaceful dreams, my darling. _

_Yours forever,_

_Erik _

Hurriedly she grabbed a pencil and some paper from her nightstand. Hastily, she wrote back to him.

_Erik, love_

_You never survived without my love, because I always had it for you. I was just too timid to give it._

_Your loving angel,_

_Antoinette_

With careful steps she creapt down into the labrynith of the underground of the Opera House. She found the gondola, and, with a fleeting hand, put the letter into it. Then, with a solemn push, she let the gondola slide smoothly across to Erik's side. Without a backwards glance, she went back up to her own room.

Erik was still sitting at his piano when the gondola reached the shore. Slowly he lifted the letter out of the gondola. He read it.

And it was the first time in his life he truly smiled.


	5. Towering Spires and Plunging Depths

_A/N: Next chappie! Yay! I am just on a roll here. Hope everyone enjoys. _**Disclaimer: Do not own POTO. However, I have screamed my little head off on account of this and hope ALW and Leroux's ghost will relent. **

Erik awoke on his silk sheets, with Giry's love note clutched to his chest. With a sigh he kissed the paper fondly, pretending it was his own, lovely Antoinette. He placed his black mask on his face, and went out from his bedroom and lit a portion of the candles. He found the opera, **_Juliette Lost_**, and began to thumb over the pages, playing indistinct snippets of its melodies.

"Antoinette would love to hear this one last time." He said in a low voice. "For it must come to an end. Why, it has been running for four years!" he laughed sarcastically and closed the folio. "I must begin a new work."

Silently he found a sheaf of papers in a forgotten part of his bedroom. They were old and grainy, but still worth much with the work of genius upon the pages. He titled it meditatively, slowly.

"_For Antoinette._" He murmured. "_My angel_." He just had to think of a logical plot, and a logical title.

He cursed inaudibly, jamming his fist against his open palm. With light steps he prowled around his home, stopping only once to take a sip of a day-old glass of red wine, half empty, but still tasting smooth. He continued to purse his lips in thought, and finally one fleeting idea dawned upon him. He would visit Antoinette, in the early morning hours. With her by his side he would find inspiration and imagination.

Restlessly he pulled his black cape around himself, and buttoned up his white shirt carefully. He made his way into the gondola, and pushed it along with the stick. The lake was dark but it gleamed with a phosphorescent light in Erik's eyes, giving them a dim glow that was both beautiful and terrible to look upon. With one, agile step he got out of the gondola and trotted up the flagstone. He decided he would take his path along the rafters of the Opera House, jumping from board to board with the fleet-footedness of a cat. He had done this upon many occasions, sometimes watching operas from the rafters, with a pleased smirk on his face. He dodged up onto the rooftop of the Opera House, staying balanced despite the ferocious wind that was blowing. Silently he scaled the spires that the Opera Populaire was renowned for, and opened up a trapdoor he had built in his youth, just large enough for a grown man to slide into.

Erik smiled; he had foresight in those days. His trapdoors never failed him. Silently he made his way deep into the complicated maze of rafters in the opera house. He knew the path like he did his own face, both being wrought with deformities. Some rafters had indeed come loose, their splintered ends hanging askew. The ropes that held up the sets were old and unraveling, often by Erik's doing. In the early hours of the morning, he would cut them and make many of his Punjab lassos, tying the intricate knots of his felon-like craft. He knew for a fact Giry slept in the ballerinas' dormitory, in a bed of ragged, torn sheets, just like the others. He had never been truly inside the dormitory, but had seen it passing through, the limp, dazed, slow-witted ballet rats fitfully asleep, subconsciously aware of his forbidding presence.

He stole down the rafters and landed on the stage with no more than a mild thump from his black boots. Erik crouched low, aware of the swinging ropes and the eerie screech they emitted when rubbed against the metal hooks. He pawed his way into the dormitory, looking into each bed until he found his Giry.

Giry was sleeping off to one side of the room, on a lumpy mattress and ordinary wrought-iron bed frame. The sheets graced her figure gently, and her threadbare black nightgown gave Erik a tormenting view of her voluptuous body. Her long brown hair was tied in a braid; she had forgotten to remove it at night, and her chest heaved slightly with every breath.

Erik took great care not to wake her, and sat down at the foot of her bed and began to write the opening scene to his opera. With a skillful hand he wrote the title.

"_Divine Heaven_" he murmured, as his eyes roamed Giry's sleeping form carefully. With a small flutter he touched his hand upon her cheek, she did not stir, but slept on.

In the morning Giry awoke, finding the sleeping Erik at the foot of her bed. In his limp hand he clutched a sheaf of papers. With a vigilant eye she preformed a minute examination of the title page, and read the title and dedication with wonder.

"So he loves me." She whispered. "I was afraid it was a dream."

She poured over the overture of the opera, imagining the music, the notes appearing before her eyes in one cataclysmic roar of sound. It was so beautiful, so passionate, it was, in truth, divine. With a slight paw of her hand, she poked Erik in the shoulder, startling him into daylight.

"You must get out of here." She said in a secretive, hushed voice. "The ballet rats will be up soon, no doubt."

"You read my opera?" he asked slowly, "Why?"

"Erik," she said quietly. "I thought it was a dream. All of it."

"It could never be a dream." He said quietly. "I know that."

"How?" she persisted.

"I just do." He said fiercely. "Don't question me, Antoinette!"

"I was not questioning you." She said stubbornly. "It is not a dream? That is all I want to know."

"I am not an illusion." Assured Erik calmly. "Come forward, feel my face."

She lifted her hands in the intention of removing his mask, but he caught her wrists in a vise-like grip.

"I do not want to wake the rats' sleeping with your screams of terror." He said.

"Erik, I am not afraid of you." She said. "Your face holds no horror for me."

He let her hands fall, and allowed her to remove his mask. She looked at him questioningly, and embraced his face with her fingertips.

"Quickly," she whispered, handing him his mask. "You must go. You must. Or they will find you."

"Goodbye, _mon ange_." He said slowly.

"Goodbye, _mon ami_." She replied. "When I come next, play me your opera."

"I shall need more of your inspiration." He said, and smirked. "Tonight, for dinner?"

"Yes." She replied. "Go now."

He slipped away into the darkness, and she could hear him climb the ropes of the backdrops. With silence she dressed herself, adorning her figure in a ballet dress, white gauze, and tiptoed out of the room and onto the dark stage. She did not dance, but sat with her feet dangling, and toyed absentmindedly with her hair. Admiring her hair was a past time she had no joy in, until now. Giry knew Erik adored her gorgeous locks, and with what rapture he stroked them. Satisfied with the braid she now pinned at the back of her head, she retreated to the back of the stage, and leaned against the barre that was screwed into the wall. As prima ballerina, she made her moves exquisite, holding her head high with pride. She alone was to lead the ballet rats on stage, and give them instruction.

Her arabesques faltered suddenly as she felt the firm grip of a hand on her arm.

"Erik, please. I am rehearsing."

"Antoinette," he pleaded, "One more minute of your presence is all I need."

She smiled coquettishly, and watched as Erik withdrew his stare from the low neckline of her dress. Instantly she ran and fetched her black shawl, draping it about her shoulders self-consciously.

"Then I will come with you." She said, "But only for a moment."

She followed him down into his lair, running her hands through the cold lake waters. He kissed her hand gallantly, and led her out of the gondola.

"Will you converse with me?" he asked slowly. "It is lonely often."

"Of course Erik." She said, and sat down on the floor, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Erik sat beside her, and cradled her in his arms.

In fact, they did not converse, just sat there for hours, watching their reflections on the lake's water. Giry leaned up against Erik, letting her head rest against his chest.

'Erik," she said, her mouth dry. "Do you love me?"

"Yes, my angel, how could I not?"

"Then I love you too."

_A/N: Pester me if you have requests on the romance front. I want to delay a few things (dun dun dun) until later chapters, but am open to ideas. I always take requests if delivered in a polite manner. _


	6. Heaven and Interrogation

_A/N: Chappie six! YAY! I have way too many ideas. Just posted some stuff on the Les Mis front, but I like my POTO stuff way better. _**Disclaimer: Do not own POTO. I will one day…mwahaha. But Erik still lives in my closet. **

Giry sat by Erik, and said in a quiet voice:

"Can I hear **_Juliette Lost_** once more, before I go?"

"Of course." He replied.

He straightened up and went over to the piano, and began to play the overture once again. Giry began to dance around the lair, and, strangely, she began to weep. Erik stopped mid-chord and looked up at her.

"Every time I hear this I think of you. And your pain." She said. "I can't understand it. But I revel in your opera. It is like second nature to me."

"Should I stop?" asked Erik. "It hurts me to see you cry so."

"No. Just look away. "

"It hurts me, but you are so beautiful. Your tears are diamonds."

She smiled a little.

"Do you sincerely mean that?" she asked. "Or are you just toying with me?'

"Antoinette, I never toy with you." He said.

"Promise?" she said.

"Yes." He said, no testy emotions escaping his lips.

"I love you, Erik." She said, and continued dancing, her tears mingling with her woolen shawl.

Erik suddenly moved towards her, and grabbed her by the waist. She was so startled that she looked at him in abject fear.

"Erik," she said. "What are you doing?"

"You know the music." He said slowly. "Dance, _mon ange_."

He held her gently, cradling her form in his arms. She moved her feet slowly, and soon began to pick up a waltzing step. Erik led her, his eyes misty with happiness. Her dress whirled around her legs, and her shawl flew behind her like wings. They danced to the music that they alone could hear, faster and faster, until Erik's face was a blur before Giry's eyes, and Giry's form an indistinct mass to Erik. Still twirling, Erik led Giry into his bedroom, and stopped. She fell onto the bed, laughing.

"In all my years Erik." She said. "I have never danced like that."

"I have never danced until I met you." He said huskily.

"I must go, Erik." She said. "Really."

She got up from the bed, and raced to the gondola. Erik alighted into the gondola after her, and pushed the boat along with the stick.

"You see." Giry explained. "My post as prima ballerina cannot go without regard. Although I would prefer spending my time with you." She smiled up at him from her position in the boat.

"Let me sing you part of _Divine Heaven_." Said Erik. "You will enjoy it."

He began in his rich baritone, and Giry was instantly enamored of the words.

_Let me show thee light_

_The light of God unending_

_It is in our souls_

_Our love and our ways_

_Sweet, immaculate beauty_

_Thou comest to me in silence _

_But I hear thine voice_

_In rapture forever _

_Let me grace thee_

_Lead me from my despair_

_Thou alone is my light_

_Thou alone is my desire _

_The flames of passion consume us_

_My love pours from an empty soul_

_Thou alone can fill me_

_Thou alone can love me _

His voice dropped into silence, and it hung in the air for a while.

"I'm sorry that it doesn't rhyme…" he began, put Giry reached up and put a finger to his lips.

"It is beautiful." She said, and hugged his chest firmly. "I look forward to hearing more of it someday."

She kissed his lips delicately.

"Erik, I love you." She whispered.

"I love you, Antoinette." He replied.

They had reached the other side of the lake.

"I cannot stay for dinner." Said Giry. "I must practice my ballet."

"Till tomorrow, then, sweet Antoinette." He said, and gave her a rapturous kiss.

"Goodbye, _mon beau ange_." She whispered tenderly. "I love you."

"I love you." Said Erik.

Giry walked up from the cold catacombs and on to the stage. The ballerinas were focusing on their arm positions, and looked up at Giry with disgust.

"Well, look who's here." Sneered one particularly nasty ballet rat. "What kept you, prima ballerina?"

"It is none of your concern." Said Giry. "Please work on your tendues."

The ballet rats grumbled indistinctly and began to stretch accordingly. Gury herself followed suit, moving gracefully in time to Erik's melodious voice singing a few bars of _Divine Heaven_. She moved away from the barre and began to turn as though she was dancing with Erik. The other ballerinas looked on in astonishment, and one went up boldly and tapped Giry on her shoulder, jerking her out of the trance.

"Who are you dancing with?" asked a young girl, as if she understood Giry's passion.

"No one." Replied Giry stiffly. "It is none of your concern." She repeated.

"Oh." The young girl backed down instinctively and began to practice her tendues again. Giry sniffed disapprovingly, and began to give them instruction, pointing out how wrong their positions were.

"Honestly," she reprimanded. "You dance like a herd of sow."

One young girl glared up at her hotly.

"Then you try it, Mademoiselle Perfect!" she said indignantly.

"I will, thank you." Replied Giry in a nonchalant voice.

She demonstrated with perfect poise the way the ballet rats were supposed to be doing the exercise.

"There now, do you understand?" she asked pointedly.

"Yes." Replied the ballet girl, who still glared and went back to her work.

Giry sighed a little, and then dismissed the ballerinas from there practice. In truth, they had only been working for about fifteen minutes, but Giry did not care. She needed to rest, and rework everything that was silently flitting about her head. With a slight wave of her arm, she led the ballerinas back into the dormitories, as nighttime was growing near, and settled the littlest ones into bed. She herself crawled into bed, changing into the same black nightgown. The young ballerina who had addressed her the first time came up to the foot of her bed.

The ballerina was a poor, young, dejected creature. Her hair was blonde, and her eyes were sunken orbs in a papery face. But she retained some prettiness, as her laugh was like silver and her voice melodious. Silently she crawled into Giry's bed, and sat down beside her, boldly taking a handful of the sheets for herself.

"Mama said a girl dances like that when she is in love." She whispered more to herself than to Giry. "Mademoiselle Giry, who are you in love with?"

"It is none of your concern." Replied Giry, and rolled over so that her back was facing the small child.

But the girl peeped over her shoulder, and began to poke Giry furiously.

"Is he handsome?" she said questioningly. "What is he like? Are you really in love? Will you get married? Mama said it is proper for a young girl to be married as soon as possible."

"Listen," Giry said heatedly. "I shall not tell you. Go to sleep."

"Please?" whined the girl, and Giry was forced to relent.

"Alright. He is a good-looking man. He is very nice. Yes we are. I don't know." She said rapidly, answered each question with a single sentence.

The girl nodded and left Giry to her quiet self. Giry leant against the pillows and thought about her relationship, and all that the little girl had said.

"Of course, Erik is not _that_ good-looking," she said slowly. "No, he is. Very good-looking. Very very good-looking. At least his one half." She chuckled to herself. "And he has a temper, oh yes, but he loves me. And that's all that matters. And…" her voice trailed off and she made the sign of the cross. "I want to be married, God. Please let Erik ask. Someday. I love him."

She turned over in her exhaustion and began to sleep.


	7. Deep and Quiet Hours

_A/N: Many thanks to all my kind and caring reviewers. It is all appreciated. Thanks especially to Queen-Chick and QueenSarah, who have remained steadfast throughout the first six chapters. _**Disclaimer: Do not own POTO. Erik, closet, Leroux's ghost…you get the drift. **

Erik sat still on his bed, humming a short melody of one part of _Divine Heaven_. In the past few weeks, Giry had heard it six times, and they had laughed, and danced, and kissed. He was so in love it was indescribable. He constantly wondered if Giry felt the same, or if she was doing everything on a whim. He was still insecure in their love, despite the sweet things that had been said.

He went from his bedroom and dressed himself in his dress shirt and embroidered vest, placing a white mask on his disfigured face. Silently he smiled, and suddenly did not wonder about Antoinette's love. She did not care about his face, and he loved her for it. With a heartfelt squeeze he crumpled the score of **_Juliette Lost_** in his hands and held it over an open candle flame. The flames consumed it in a burst of brilliant, orange light. He smiled a bit, and laughed. There would be no turning back. He heard his opera go up in a brilliant burst of sound. The chords weaved around his head, and he sighed in happiness. Finally his pain would diminish.

It was still nighttime in the darkness of the ballerinas' dormitory. Giry had slept for a brief twenty minutes, and could not erase Erik's face from her mind. She had tried so hard to do so, and it just would not work. Creeping out of the dormitory, she set off with one purpose in her young mind.

"Erik," she whispered. "I swear to you I love you."

Her arms shook when she opened her wardrobe, and took out an article of clothing that she thought she would never use. It was another nightgown, not her threadbare black one, but one with a sweeping neckline and coquettish lace frills. She smiled a little and began to giggle.

"He shall be in for a surprise." She said with a triumphant smile.

Rapidly, she changed into the nightgown, admiring how it fit her curves snugly. She let her hair out of the long braid, allowing it to flow elegantly down to her waist. She slipped her feet into a pair of red slippers, and wrapped a pearl necklace, her dead mother's, around her neck. Her heart was pounding a rhythmic tattoo in her chest, and she felt the heat begin to rise in her head. Her eyes were wide, but beautiful, and they crinkled with a trace of tears.

"Erik." She whispered.

The prima ballerina went from her room and out into the lonely stage. With a sigh, she gracefully pirouetted around the floor, waving her arms with grace. Maybe tonight she would dance with Erik; maybe she would finally dance the dance she was truly meant to. Nervously, she moved through the aisles of the theatre, and made her way to the trapdoor that was sure to lead to Erik's lair.

With trepidation she walked down the cracked flagstone, past the lit candles decorated with cobwebs. At the edge of the lake, she stood for a while, contemplating every possibility.

"But my position…my religion…" she said with fear, in a hushed whisper so her words would not travel over to Erik. "What if…" her voice trailed off into nothingness.

With haste she stepped into the gondola, and pushed the pole into the muddy bottom. She did not see Erik, and her heart fell for a moment. She stepped from the gondola, allowing her nightgown to trail a bit in the water.

"Erik?" she whispered, her voice that of heated passion. "Erik?"

He emerged from his bedroom with a beautiful white mask and a great black cloak, draped around his shoulders. Instantly his eyes were drawn to her face, and then analyzed the womanly curves that presented themselves so readily.

"Antoinette?" he asked in amazement.

"Shhh." She said slowly. He was staring at the low neckline of her nightgown, and was trying in vain to pull his eyes away. "Do not turn your gaze." She said calmly. "For I love you."

She walked towards him and gave him a rapturous kiss, and he kissed her back with the same fervor. She said nothing, but gestured silently with her eyes towards the bedroom. Erik nodded, and let his hands run down to her waist.

"First," he muttered. "We must dance."

She sighed, and began to dance with him, as he feverishly kissed her neck. She laughed a little, and smiled lightly. He looked at her with eyes pleading and darkness seeped from them. She said nothing in return, and retreated to the bedroom. With a joyful laugh he pushed her down on the bed, and undid the buttons of her nightgown with skill and precision. Soon she was half-naked on the bed, and he kissed each piece of exposed skin with renewed desire. She in turn kissed his face and neck, taking the mask off with a flourish. Instinctively he reached for it, but with a calm hand she guided his hand away, back to the lower back of her dress.

"I want to see _you_, Erik." She said firmly. "Do not hide from me."

He nodded, and continued to undress her, Giry moaning with pleasure.

"Erik," she cooed softly. "Erik."

"No words." He said slowly, "I love you."

She nodded, and Erik let her head rest languidly on the pillows. He undressed before her, and she admired the view.

"How could I have been so nervous?" she murmured quietly. "I love him."

He was naked before her, and she smiled.

"Come, Erik." She whispered. "Let the dream descend. I love you."

"I shall show you the music of the night." He whispered, kissing her breasts with relish. She guided his lips towards her face, and their lips met with rapture.

"No going back." He said firmly. "Sweet seduction, is at last, _mine_."

"How long shall we wait until we're one?" she asked.

"Not very long." He replied with desire.

And with feverish passion they began to make love into the deep and quiet hours of the night.

_A/N: So, did you like? I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, but probably would have had more if my sister wasn't pestering me saying how much she hates fanfiction. _


	8. A Soul's Death

_A/N: Many heartfelt thanks to all of my lovely reviewers. Your encouragement is greatly appreciated. This chapter is dedicated in memory of my parents' marriage. It ended about six years ago. _

Erik rested languidly, curled in Giry's arms. Her head rested on his, and he could feel her breathing against his naked skin. They had made so much love that night, in fact they had fallen asleep only hours ago. With a light finger he traced his hand from her cheekbone down to her breasts. She stirred slightly, and her emerald eyes fluttered open.

"Erik," she murmured. "I love you."

"I love you, Antoinette. I really do." He assured her, kissing her lips.

She adjusted the covers with an air of a woman who has offered her innocence and is ashamed. With a furtive movement she brought the sheets up to her chin.

"Why so ashamed, _mon ange_?" he asked slowly.

"Erik, maybe, maybe, it wasn't the right time. I am only a girl." She said.

"You sound as if you're sixteen!" he scoffed. "But, Antoinette, you are a woman. You proved yourself, last night." He winked flirtatiously at her, and in muted exasperation she hit him with her pillow.

"Erik!" she scolded, and then hugged his frame. "Erik! How dare you say that about me!" Her voice was muffled against his flesh.

He petted her head limply, and sighed.

"Antoinette, in some ways you are so mature, others, so infantile."

"Are you the one to talk?" she asked pointedly, and raised her eyebrows.

"No." he muttered. "But I see more than you ever will see."

"Erik, I love you." She said again, as she could not help that phrase escaping from her lips.

"I do too, Antoinette." He whispered, as he got up to get dressed. She still admired his physique with that attention and speculation of a schoolgirl. She followed his lead, allowing the nightgown to slip graciously over her shoulders.

"I must go." She said. "The ballet rats will need me."

Lightly she stepped into the gondola, and Erik guided her through the swirling waters. He pushed the pole deep into the thick, oozing mud and brought it out again with firm strokes. The dim underworld of the Opera Populaire shrank back into darkness.

It had been three weeks since Erik and Giry had made passionate love. Erik regarded the night as magic, and Giry thought of it as an escapade to the distant stars. Clearly, the two were enamored of each other. Each night Giry would kiss her pillow, pretending it was her own Erik, and while she did not know it some of the ballet rats would laugh mutely from their own beds. Erik, meanwhile, would sit and think of nothing but Giry, and sometimes would feel like going without eat or sleep while he was away from her.

One lonely night, Giry crept from her bed to go and visit her beloved. She tottered down the steps, and her posture gave off an air of foreboding. Soundlessly she stepped into the gondola, and pushed herself to the opposite shore. Erik saw her, and rushed forward. He kissed her lips fondly, but she did not return it. Her eyes were cold, and she looked upon him with fear and hatred.

"_Mon ange_." He said slowly. "What is the matter?'

"Nothing, Erik, nothing." She replied, turning her face away from him so he wouldn't see her silent tears.

"What is it?" he repeated, his voice growing more impatient and demanding.

She said nothing, but went into his bedroom. She did nothing, but sat on the bed, furling and unfurling the sheets through her fingers.

"So much was gained…" she murmured. "And lost here, Erik." The tears rolled freely down her cheeks. "Erik. I have something to tell you."

"What is it?" he repeated. "Damn it, Antoinette, tell me!"

"Erik, I no longer desire to be with you."

"What?" he replied, exasperated. "Antoinette, why? Was it something I said?"

"No." she whispered. "Erik, I am pregnant."

Erik's eyes glazed over, and he kissed Antoinette on the forehead.

"Erik," she began. "We will have a child. But I shall leave the Opera Populaire, tonight. I will never come back. You must do without me, Erik."

"But…" he began.

"No buts." She said suddenly, cutting him off short. "Erik, my position, I am through. My religion, I am unmarried, bearing a whelp, a bastard child. I cannot work here anymore, I cannot…"

"So _that_ is what you think of me?" he spat into her face. "Our child, a bastard child! An unwanted whelp!"

"In truth Erik." She said. "I feel no love for you."

"Then go." He whispered, his teeth clenched. "Go. What do I care?"

She did not move, but stood looking coldly at him.

"Erik." She said, her voice resonating through the cavernous room. "I hate you."

"GO!" he shouted at her, and brandished a lasso in front of her face. "Go, or I will kill you! I never want to see your wretched face again!"

She said nothing, but with one firm motion cast the lasso to the floor, and walked from the room. She stepped into the gondola, and then began to push herself along. Erik watched her fleeting figure disappear among the mist, and he let out one sob.

"Curse you." He whispered. "Am I doomed to Hell?" He threw the lasso to the ground, and sat at his piano. With one cruel whip of his hand he gathered up the score of _Divine Heaven_ and held it over a candle.

"You are over, Giry." He muttered cruelly, and watched the flames lick the pages. And he gave one triumphant, solitary laugh.

_A/N: Sorry for the shortness of this chapter. I hope you enjoyed. My parents' marriage did not end like this, but it hurt me equally. I tried to magnify the feelings of anger and confusion in this chapter. Please tell me I did a good job. _


	9. Rash Tears and Decisions

_A/N: Hoped everyone liked the last chapter. We are in for a lot of twists and turns. Thanx especially to Queen-Chick, Queen Sarah, Bergerac, and MadameGiryMiranda for their continued support. _

Giry raced upstairs, the empty tears spilling out of her eyes. She hated him. That bastard! That man…who…who…But it was her, wasn't it? She started to make love to him, to seduce him, to make him see she was _his_. Hastily she ran to the managers' office, wiping the tears with the back of hand.

"Mademoiselle?" asked Poligny. "What is the matter?"

"Please, Monsieur, my mama is sick…" the childish, simpering voice leaked through her sniffs. "She may be dying. May I go to her?"

"At once, child." Said Poligny, "Go and see your mother. I give you leave."

"For how long?" she asked anxiously.

"For as long as you need." Said Poligny. "We shall let one other ballerina fill your post."

Giry nodded, and rushed to her room.

"Erik," she cursed, sobbing. "What have I done?"

With deft hands she stuffed a leather bag full of her clothing, making sure it contained nothing coquettish. She threw a shawl over her dress, and tied her hair up in a ruffled bun. Her eyes red, she streaked out of theatre, and began to run, run, anywhere she could.

Erik sat down on the bed, fondling the sheets with caresses.

"Antoinette…" he murmured.

He sat motionless, and said nothing, watched his hands clench and unclench the fabric. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he mourned suddenly for the woman he had lost.

Giry struggled along the roads, which were covered ankle-deep in snow. The thin shawl made her shiver. She had best to make it to an inn, and find lodging. Where the young child, Erik's child, would live, she had no idea. She walked for at least half and hour before she found an inn, a small tavern near the farther reaches of Paris, safely away from the Opera Populaire. She opened the grimy wooden door to find that it was almost devoid of all human life. Only one man sat at the bar, and the landlord, wearing a dirty, greasy apron over his white, tattered shirt, was cleaning the tables with an almost menacing leer.

"Please Monsieur," she said, curtseying politely. "Would you have lodging for a young mademoiselle?"

"Yes." He grunted. "If you can pay."

"How much?" asked Giry, pulling her small purse from her bag.

"Ten francs a night." Said the man. "No exceptions, even for a lovely mademoiselle such as yourself."

"Oh, thank you." Said Giry, blushing slightly underneath her raw skin that was red from crying.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked slowly.

"Yes, if you please." She replied.

"Come to the bar." He said, "And I shall give you whatever little food I have."

Giry walked over slowly and sat down beside the lonely man at the bar.

"Armand Jules." Said the man sitting beside her, kissing her hand lightly.

"Antoinette Giry." She said. "It is a pleasure."

"Indeed." Said Armand. "How long will you be staying?"

He gestured with one hand around the room, and Giry's eyes took it all in.

"About a month, at least." Said Giry, remembering her child. "Monsieur."

"Please!" said Armand. "Monsieur is too formal for me."

"Well, then, Armand, about a month."

"Much better!" he replied, and applauded her enthusiastically. "What do you do, Antoinette?"

"I am…" she faltered. "I was…a ballerina at the Opera."

"Ah!" he replied. "A great woman! How was your career?"

"Very nice." She said, careful not to elaborate.

"That is good." Replied Armand, and resumed drinking his glass of red wine. "Care for a sip?"

"If you wouldn't mind." Said Giry boldly, and took the glass from his hand. "This is exquisite!"

"It is the best wine money can buy." Interrupted the landlord. "Would you care for your own glass?"

"Yes please." Said Giry, eager to drown her sorrows, literally. The landlord handed her a small glass of wine, and she drank deeply.

"I must retire early." Said Armand. "Goodnight, Antoinette."

"Goodnight, Armand." She said carefully. "Sleep well."

The man exited and retired upstairs, leaving Giry sitting alone at the bar.

"He is a very nice man." Said the landlord in a whisper. "Pays me an extra two francs each night! Lord, I am making a profit off of him. He has been here over a year!"

"Oh really?" inquired Giry, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes. I am not sure what he does." Replied the landlord. "But he seems to be the man you would like." He winked at her, and she nodded.

"Perhaps." She replied dryly. "I, too, must retire."

With one hand she grabbed her bag and alighted the stairs, placing her other hand on the banister. She walked up dizzily, wishing she had another glass of wine to drown her now confused brain. Her heart beat a rhythmic tattoo in her chest.

Erik was alone, and began to compose one solitary piece. The notes dashed along the page, and he felt the horror and pain fall out of his pen in deft strokes. It hurt him, and he tore at his shirt restlessly. The tears rolled down his cheeks, and he whispered Giry's name constantly.

Giry went into her small room and lay down, exhausted, on the bed. Thoughts whirled around inside her head and made her dizzy. She hated Erik, or did she? Was he so horrible? The question bubbled in her mind, and her answer was a firm yes. He had to make her pregnant, humiliate her forever, scarring her reputation with a long knife. And yet Armand presented himself so readily, she could escape. She could find love with him, and they could begin, him, and her, holding each other tenderly through all her fears. Erik would not come, he dared not leave the Opera Populaire. She would be safe, from his wrath. She hated Erik, she confirmed with a decisive glance around the room. She would marry Armand Jules, and leave her past behind her.

Giry had lived a month in the filthy in, and her purse was running dry. She knew that Armand had finally bought a house, and she was determined to marry. Once, marry.

She ran from the inn and through back alleys, until she found the house that she was looking her. It was a charming, two-storey house, with white bricks and a beautiful roof. Solemnly she knocked on the door, and he opened it.

"Antoinette." He said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm in love." She said quickly. "With you Armand."

"Really?" he said. 'I had no idea you reciprocated my feelings."

"Yes." She said breathlessly, and kissed him.

"May I marry you?" asked Armand, as he led her into the house.

"Of course," she said.

The next week Armand and Giry were married. It was a time of bliss for the groom, but the bride cried as the day grew closer and closer. Eventually they stood in front of the aisle, two solemn people about to embark into the holy bonds of matrimony.

"I do." Said Giry.

_But you love him, _said a small voice in the back of her head.

_A/N: So, do you like it so far? Armand is such a dork, but hey, he has to be that way. Maybe something magical will happen soon…you'll have to wait and see. _


	10. Forewarning

_A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter. I am sorry to **The Queen Sarah** for the misconceptions about your pen name. Hope everyone will review the next chapter with as much gusto as they did the last. _**Disclaimer: Erik lives in my closet. Not yours…mine. I still haven't bound and gagged ALW, but I'm working on it. **

Erik said nothing, as he stalked through the rafters of the Opera Populaire. He knew Giry had disappeared, but still watched the _corps du ballet_ with the usual fervor. However, the prima ballerina, the young Marie, was trying on his nerves. She danced with the grace of an ox, and her feet pounded against the stage. He wished every night that Giry would come back and dance for him, one last time.

He watched the performance with cat-like eyes, fingering a beautifully crafted lasso in his hands. Tonight would be Marie's last performance. Giry's last performance. For in his mind he had transformed Marie's lithe, twig-thin figure into Giry's curvaceous body. Giry, not Marie, would come to harm. Giry's curtain would fall in the end, not his. The prima ballerina was promenading gaily around the stage. Erik pounced on her in mid-step, and felt her trembling body beneath his gloved fingers.

"Do not fear." He whispered calmly. "The Angel has come to take you home."

With one deft movement he strangled her with the lasso, and smiled a deliciously wicked smile. Her body fell to the floor with a thud, and carefully he looked around at the audience, who were slowly advancing upon him. With one sharp movement he stepped on a floorboard, and his personal trapdoor opened into the catacombs. He felt it lock surely behind him.

"Fancy that." He said. "And no one shall ever find me."

He stalked down in the caverns of the opera house, running despite his knowledge of secrecy. He had committed murder again, and this time he felt no pang of remorse. The first few times, with the ballet rats, he had felt a flicker of guilt. They had not _deserved_ to die. But they had anyway, because of the managers' foolhardy behavior. He remembered their faces, and little Kathrine crying out: 'It's the Opera Ghost!'. She had met him, and had suffered for that behavior. Erik had smiled then, a twisted smile, full of guilt and happiness. This time, though, there was no mercy.

"Antoinette," he muttered. "Yet I love you still."

Giry herself was settled in her bed, lying next to Armand's prostrate figure. They had made love that night, passionate love. However, it was Armand who carried all the passion. Giry kissed him with dead lips, and her words were dry and limp in her mouth. She knew she did not love him. It had not been an escapade to the distant stars, but like wallowing in the filth of the Parisian sewers. She had sold herself to her husband, whereas with Erik she had loved him with devotion. If she had married Erik…she sighed, thinking of his own warm body and the delicacy and passion of his caresses. How she would love to hold him again…once, just once. But then she remembered the child she was carrying, Erik's child, and how she could never be free. Armand was her salvation, she was married, and the child would be passed off as his. Armand's child, but true fruit of Giry and Erik. And then, when the child was older, what would she say to it? Would she lie and sin? She would have to. She would have to lie to her child and her husband until death, and even in their graves they would not know the truth. Giry would hide it, and hide her love for Erik.

"Good morning," whispered Armand, kissing her head.

Giry was jolted out of her thoughts.

"Good morning." She replied, and got dressed quickly.

"I love you Antoinette." He said.

"I do too." She replied, pulling a dress over her naked body. She realized that her now-rounding stomach was protruding in a garish way. Instinctively she ruffled her dress so no one would now. However, her husband noticed it.

"Antoinette, are you getting plump?" he teased.

"Yes, Armand, I believe we have a child."

"My God." He said slowly. He kissed her forehead and shamefully began to cry. "I always dreamed of having a child." He whispered.

"Yes." Sighed Giry. "I wonder what it will be?"

"If it is a boy, let us call him…Alexandre."

"That is a pretty name." Giry agreed. "But if it is a girl, may we call her Marguerite?"

"Of course, my love. Marguerite Louisa, if we may?"

"Why Louisa?" she asked.

"It was my mother's name." said Armand. "She always wished to have a grandchild."

"I prefer…Erika." She said.

"Erika is ugly, Antoinette."

"Fine." She muttered, completely nonplussed. "We will call it either Marguerite Louisa or Alexandre Francoise."

"Francoise?"

"Francoise was the name of my father." Lied Giry. It had been the name of a stagehand she had remembered giving her a piece of sugared candy.

"Then alright." He said. "I love our child already."

"I do too. I love our child."

He got up and pulled on his own clothing, and disappeared out into the crowded streets.

"I love our child, Erik." Said Giry, fingering the bedspread. She went out of the room and into the kitchen, where she found a copy of the morning paper, ink staining their small table. She did not care about the stain, but what the newspaper said.

**Corps du Ballet in Shock at Opera Populaire **

She read the article quickly. Marie, darling, sweet Marie, was dead.

"Erik." She muttered. "Erik, why?"

Her hand shook with the shock. She almost saw Erik's terrible countenance in the horrible grimace of death. He was not beautiful now. He was a twisted, horrible monster. A creature, not a human. No human could commit such a crime without remorse.

"Erik," she whispered. "Erik, you bastard. You lying, cheating, foul bastard." Her voice had begun in a whisper but soon she was screaming the words. "Bastard from the pits of Hell! Oh Erik!"

She wailed and went into her room, and lay down, sobbing on the bed. Her hatred and love for the man made her heart ache. She loved him and she feared him. Thank God she had gone, or he would have killed her outright. But now longing swept over her, and she wanted to go back. Marry the murderous bastard, and raise their child.

Erik hid in the catacombs, finishing the piece that he was writing. The pain he felt poured out of him like blood. When it was finished he sighed, satisfied. He penned out another note to the managers.

_My esteemed gentlemen,_

_As I own this theatre, I command that you play this piece during intermission in one of the operas. It is your choice to do so, but be warned, Marie's death is only a forewarning. _

_Sincerely,_

_O.G. _

He tied it up with a red ribbon and laid it to one side. A tear streaked across his face, but he brushed it way thoughtlessly.

"Antoinette, come back to me."

He then penned out another letter, this time to Antoinette.

_Dear Giry,_

_My heartfelt congratulations on your marriage. Your husband must be delighted with the upcoming birth of **our** child. If you truly want to be happy, return to your beloved. Marie's death was a warning, and I shall continue to send out more warnings if you delay. _

_O.G. _

He exited from the passage from the bedroom, and out into the deserted halls of the Opera Populaire. He said nothing, but left the two notes on the desk of the managers. He penned out a short notice on the note to Giry.

"To be given to Mademoiselle Giry immediately."

He left with the air of a man that had a great burden lifted from his heart.

_A/N: It has been approx. two months since Armand's and Giry's marriage. Hope to see good reviews. More twists left to come…_


	11. One Last Time

_A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Much thanks to all those who review, your encouragement is greatly appreciated. _**Disclaimer: I own my closet. Leroux owns Erik. Shit. **

Giry said nothing to her husband about the note. She kept it hidden in her nightstand, and for days worried about it. It had been a fateful day when she came to Poligny to ask for more leave, and her heart had almost stopped at the thought of Erik's letter.

In the early morning hours she dressed herself in a high-collared black dress and draped a black wool shawl over her shoulders. She put on a black hat with a black lace veil, one she had bought when her dear friend, Beatrice, had died. She also took a black parasol out of the umbrella stand. There she stood, dressed in her finest clothing, a solitary, solemn expression on her face.

"Antoinette?" said Armand. "Why go out dressed like that?"

"I have some business to attend to, and must look respectable." She said slowly. "Please." She laid a hand on Armand's arm. "Do not worry about me. I shall be back soon."

"Why would I worry?" asked Armand with a frivolous wave of his hand. "Go, and do what you please."

She nodded solemnly and walked out of the house, shutting the door calmly behind her. Giry opened up the black parasol although it was not raining, and shielded her veiled face from the sun. People on the street looked askance at her, and the other women, some of which who used to be 'ballet rats', eve made comments to her.

"Madame Jules," said one, "Is Armand, dead?"

"No." she replied. "I have other business to attend to." Her eyes were downcast, but they blazed with fire.

"Farewell, then." Said the woman with a childish laugh to her compatriots.

Giry did not pay attention but went in the direction of the Opera Populaire. With trepidation she opened the door and went inside, heading to Poligny's office.

"Monsieur." She said slowly. "May I ask you a favor?"

"Yes Giry." He said wearily, as he was tired of handing out favors.

"Please, Monsieur, it is Jules."

"Ah, married! But why dressed in black?"

"I had nothing else to wear." She lied. "My clothing is at the tailor's for mending."

"I see. What can I do for you, Jules?"

"I would like to visit the _corps du ballet_, and announce my marriage." She said, weaving a well-wrought fabrication.

"Of course, Jules." Said Poligny. "Do as you please."

She nodded and curtsied in an almost wanton way, then tripped down the steps and went onto the stage. She looked up at the beautiful ceiling, and at the rafters, where she would have usually seen Erik's face. Then, abandoning all self-consciousness, she did one single pirouette around the stage. Nobody heard her. Then, she went to the back of the theatre and opened a small, concealed door. With slight steps she walked down into the catacombs, and felt the damp walls with lust in her fingertips.

She pulled back the curtain and entered Erik's bedroom. Sadly, she stroked the sheets with fondness, and arranged herself on the bed, tucking her legs up underneath her and pulled the parasol in front of her face.

Erik, himself, was composing a short piece and she listened to it silently. Then, she heard him prowl around his lair, pacing back and forth.

"Antoinette, come back." He whispered. "Come back to me."

She said nothing, but sat still on the bed. She saw his pale hand extend and grip the curtain that covered the door to his bedroom. He opened it and stood stock-still. Neither of them could pull their gaze away.

Giry drunk in the shape of Erik's figure hidden beneath his lustrous clothing and black cape. His black hair was pulled back and his face was hidden by his black mask. Erik also took in Giry's figure, the curves hidden from him, but what most intrigued him were her eyes. They were emeralds blazing from passionate fire, and in truth they made him tremble. But then his eyes scanned her figure more closely, and noticed a gold band that she wore on her finger. She stood up slowly before him.

"Antoinette." He said slowly. "What are you doing here?"

"I am married Erik." She said simply.

"I guessed as much." He growled softly.

"But Erik, you do not understand. I came back, just like you asked me too."

"Why did you marry, Antoinette?" he asked. "I could have given you marriage."

"But my child, our child…" she began.

"Needed a father." He finished, snarling. "Am I not fit to be a father?"

"Erik, what would people say if I was married to the Opera Ghost?"

"People!" he spat. "Who cares about what people think! We could live here, in contentment, and raise our child."

"Erik, we couldn't." she said shortly "What type of life would our child have?"

"Not a very happy one." Erik admitted, his anger evaporating. He bent down on his knees and kissed the hem of her dress. "Oh, Antoinette, please forgive me, for everything."

"And yet you murdered Marie." She whispered. "Erik, just tell me why."

"I did not want to see… a simple child… steal your glory." He whispered. "I love you too much, for that."

"But Erik, she did not steal my glory. I gave my glory to her." She said soothingly. "I must go."

"Wait." Erik grabbed a hold of her shawl. "Please, just do me this one favor."

"What?" she asked.

"I wish for you to dance with me, one last time." He said slowly.

She nodded, and allowed Erik's arm to snake around her waist and she took his other hand in her own. They danced slowly, her head rested on his shoulder, to an imaginary waltz. Once it had ended, Giry broke away quickly.

"When shall I see you again?" he asked tentatively.

"I do not know." She said sadly. "Maybe tomorrow, maybe never."

"Whatever happens." He began. "I wish you love."

"And I accept it, Erik." She said. "And I thank you."

She laid a kiss delicately on his forehead, and a single tear streaked across her pallid cheek. Erik said nothing, but touched his hand furtively to her stomach.

"Our child." He breathed. "Do not forget that, Antoinette."

_A/N: Glad they sort have got back together. I anxiously wait for reviews, and those who do will get…a romantic soiree with Erik. Yeah. Or an Oreo. Your choice. _


	12. Child of Immaculate Darkness

_A/N: New chapter! Yay! Well, I must say that you people don't read the author's notes as carefully as they should. My dear **Bergerac** is the only one to get a romantic soiree with Erik. For a month. Yes, I am lending him to you. The rest get Oreos. _

The evening passed slowly away into oblivion. Giry rested her head against her pillow, and the cold tears fell against her pallid face. She touched Armand's sleeping figure restlessly, and felt no love go through her veins. Erik's skin against hers, that would be different. But she loved Armand, she convinced herself. Armand was the only one for her. And yet this was not true.

"Erik," she whispered into the night. "Turn my head with talk of summertime."

Erik, too, could not sleep. He felt nothingness seep through his body. It was a dull void that possessed him when he was without Giry. She was his own, to hold, to love. A drumbeat thudded against his brain, and he imagined Giry sleeping beside him. Her warm, tender, graceful form in silence next to his own. And suddenly hate bubbled within him, curing him of the deadening sensation that took over him. This Armand, this fiend, how dare he lie with his beloved. How dare he hold her in his arms, his evil, grasping arms. How dare he spit out those words of lust and love to her. Erik had a right to Giry, she was his. But he did not wish to kill Armand. No, the time was not ripe, at least not yet. She said she would return, perhaps. Silently he prayed, everyday, that she would come back to him, and kiss his lips, whisper words of contentment and seduction.

He rolled over fitfully and tried to drive her tormenting face from his mind.

Giry, meanwhile, in the early hours of the morning, began to feel cramps form in her abdomen. They were sharp, discoursing pains that made their way through her veins. With a sharp tug she woke Armand up, who was still sleeping.

"Armand," she whispered, teeth clenched. "Get the midwife. Now."

Without hesitation he nodded, and threw an overcoat over his nightshirt, racing to the nearest midwife, an old, ugly woman called Madame Forcheneau. She was up and was practicing the art of medicine with one of her pupils, a stunningly beautiful girl called Cecile. Armand admitted silently to himself that he had loved Cecile before Giry, and would have married her instead.

"Madame." He said, after she had opened the door. Her beady eyes regarded him carefully. "My wife, she is about to give birth."

Madame Forcheneau replied with a fitful nod of the head and a slight gesture to Cecile.

"Come, ma petite. Madame Jules, she needs attention."

Cecile nodded, her blonde hair flouncing in waves, and pulled a threadbare cape over herself. Madame Forcheneau in turn donned a wool-spun shawl and exited her own small home. Armand said nothing but gripped Cecile's hand in his own and the two ran towards his house. Poor Madame Forcheneau was left to grunt and struggle behind them like a stuck pig.

Giry ferociously clenched her pillow tightly. Her heart began to pound against her chest, and she thought of nothing but the pain. With muted joy she realized that Armand had come bursting through the door with Cecile and the midwife. Immediately she was soothed by their presence, and relaxed a little.

The midwife, for all her ludicrous appearance and age, whispered words to Giry that calmed her.

"There, ma petite. There, there, it'll be alright." She said slowly, passing a cold but firm hand over Giry's forehead.

"Merci, Madame." She muttered between the bursts of pain.

Giry struggled through most of the day, and at about ten o'clock she gave birth to a child.

"It is a girl." Armand announced happily, and Giry's eyes welled with happiness.

"Let us call her Marguerite." She whispered. "Marguerite Erika."

"Again with Erika?" Armand laughed and rolled his eyes. "As long as we can add in Louisa as well."

"Fair enough." Giry agreed, sighing. "Marguerite Erika Louisa."

While clutching the baby, Armand gestured with his eyes for Madame Forncheneau and Cecile to retreat. Before they left, Giry clasped their hands in hers and kissed them.

"Many thanks." She said slowly. "Armand…" she reached for her purse on the nightstand. "Give them this, as a token of my esteem."

She handed him two, bright, gold _napoleons_ with a smile. Armand looked askance at the money and then handed the baby to Giry, in exchange for the gold.

"Here." He said. "For your troubles."

The two women got out of the house with haste. Armand kissed Giry's lips, and halfheartedly she returned it. Giry then turned her gaze to Marguerite, who was beautiful.

Her hair was like handspun silk and the color of honey-brown. The baby's eyes were wide and a deep blue, much like her father's. She looked on in wonder at her mother, and her alleged father.

"See," said Giry slowly, pronouncing the monosyllable with thought. "This is Mama." She pointed with a solemn finger to herself. "And this is Papa." The one word faltered on her tongue, slipping past her lips with much hesitation. She pointed to Armand, and then laughed.

"I am glad with Marguerite." She said. "She fills me with joy."

"As she does me." Whispered Armand, and kissed Giry furtively. "Do you wish to sleep?"

"Yes, Armand." She said leisurely. "Having a baby has greatly tired me."

He laughed and kissed her on the forehead and exited from the room. She stroked Marguerite's hair in wonder and joy.

"You are Erik's child." She whispered to the sleeping baby. "And you possess his joy, his pain, and his rapture. Never forget that, ma petite."

The sleeping child did not stir, but continued to slumber. Giry said nothing for a few moments, and then began to sing, quietly.

_Sweet, immaculate beauty_

_Thou comest to me in silence_

_But I hear thine voice_

_In rapture forever _

She stopped suddenly, and thought of Armand, probably lurking in the shadows. No doubt he had heard her, as the house was so silent. But he did not.

"Erik," she murmured. "I wish you could see our child, darling Meg Erika Giry."


	13. Adulteress Unabashed

_A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter. Much appreciated as always. _

Giry was walking alone in the Parisian streets, as Armand was busy with some paperwork that needed to be filled. The infant Meg, who was now a year old, was cradled in her arms. She decided to show Meg to Erik, for a little while. She had made a promise to him that she would return, and it was promise she meant to keep.

Meg's blue eyes fluttered open and looked on in wonder at her mother. In the deep subconscious of her mind Meg knew that there was something afoot. It was undeniable. Her mother had been so secretive of late. At least, that was how she termed it. And Armand was distant, each passing day a little more so. He kissed her mother with less fervor and gentleness, more like he was brushing her away. Meg pulled at Giry's dress, and the woman laughed.

"Little Meg, what is it?" she said cheerfully. The wide-eyed creature merely looked at her, and then placed a small kiss on her mother's cheek. Giry in turn placed another kiss on Meg's cheek, and their silence was not uncomfortable.

Giry hunched her shoulders and began to go at a faster pace. She had to reach the Opera Populaire before Armand worried about her.

Armand, however, was not even thinking of Giry. He was dressed in a smart frock coat and wore white kid gloves with an air of nobility. He knocked firmly on the midwife's door, and immediately stepped in.

"Cecile, darling, is Madame Forcheneau here?"

"No." the girl whispered back. "Armand, I love you."

"And I do too." Said Armand.

"Do you ever think about…her?" Cecile asked in a whisper.

"No. I only think of you."

She repaid him this compliment with a seductive kiss.

"Let us begin." She said. "We have only two precious hours before Madame returns."

Giry walked up to the entrance of the Opera Populaire and threw open the doors, making Meg cry out against the noise. Silently Giry shushed her, placing a firm, dry hand over Meg's lips.

"Shh…Meg." Whispered Giry. "We must see our friend."

She had defined Erik as such, as she felt anxious about revealing his true identity to the child. With one smooth movement she opened a trapdoor in the floor of the stage and jumped carefully, holding Meg securely in her arms. It was not a long fall, and Meg did not even cry out. Giry placed a hand on the glistening walls and began to descend, singing a soft lullaby to Meg so she would fall asleep and not see her true father.

Giry went down further until she came to the underground lake. With one gentle movement she settled herself and Meg into the gondola, then pushed it firmly so it made its way to Erik's lair.

He was sitting at his ebony piano, but it was silent. He was thinking of Giry and Armand.

"Truly they must love each other." He admitted, and his voice echoed into the darkness. "If she has not seen me for over a year."

"You are the only one I could love." Said Giry as she stepped from the gondola.

"Antoinette!" he cried in happiness. "I have longed to see you."

"And I you." Replied Antoinette. "But speak softly. I have our child, and she is sleeping."

Erik peered into the bundle of clothes and could not go without a delighted laugh.

"Sleeping perfectly." He whispered. "What is her name?"

"Marguerite Erika." Said Giry, "I named her after you."

"The one who caused all of this trouble." Erik said slowly.

"Erik," Giry laid a patient hand on his shoulder. "You do not trouble me."

"I trouble Armand." Erik said with wry smirk.

"He doesn't know." Replied Giry. "And your true identity must be kept from Meg."

"Little Meg." Erik said with gusto. "I understand." He continued wearily. "No doubt you passed off Armand as the father?"

"Yes." Giry whispered, her voice faltering. "And I swear it was the hardest thing for me to do."

"I understand, Antoinette." He repeated heavily. "But know that I love you. And darling Meg too. Will I be able to see her often?"

"Maybe one day." Replied Giry. "When she's older, I'll allow her to go to your lair. And I will tell her the story of the Phantom of the Opera."

"Indeed you will." Said Erik with a smile.

"I must go now, Erik." Said Giry slowly. She went up to him and kissed him longingly. He returned it with the same passion as he always had.

"Antoinette, when will you return to me, _mon ange_?"

"As soon as I can, _mi amour_." She whispered, and kissed him again. With one smooth motion she set Meg down on Erik's piano bench and then began to kiss him fiercely. He returned the kiss with rapture, feeling the caverns of her mouth and she guided his hands down to feel her waist and breasts. Her own arms snaked pleasurably around his neck and she stroked his black hair. For one fleeting instant she wished to go to bed with him, make love for hours and hours. Then she thought of Meg, of Armand. Poor little Meg, left to fend for herself in the catacombs while her parents made love. It was a sad thought. Giry broke off, but Erik's hands still lingered around her waist.

"Erik," she whispered. "Kindly remove your hands, _mon beau ange_."

"As you wish." He smirked with delight, and kissed her lips longingly again. He released her and Giry gathered up Meg in her arms. With one silent flicker of her eyelashes she thanked him silently.

"Know, my angel, that if I did not have husband or child I would make love to you endlessly." She said coyly, and winked.

Erik laughed in delight and surprise, and took her hand to lead her into the gondola. She sat down with Meg in her arms, and he gave it a solemn push so it would float down to the opposite end.

Armand, meanwhile was pulling on his clothing, having had a long session of sexual intercourse with his darling Cecile. He kissed her solemnly before leaving, and put on his hat, walking out the door without a second thought.

Giry herself continued to hold Meg in her arms, cuddling her fondly and wishing that Meg knew the whole truth. Her thoughts constantly went back to Erik and how he was feeling. She longed to be one family, but knew it could never be. She could not marry the Angel of Music. Never. Her prayer in earlier years was futile.

She entered her house and kissed Armand with scorn, laughing inside at the paltry image of a lover in front of her. He was short, red-headed, and dumpy, his frock-coat stained and his eyes puffy orbs. Silently she tried to imagine Erik there, but with this man standing in front of her she could not. Instead, she gave him a nod and went into her own bedroom. Armand and she had ceased sharing one room.

_A/N: Have nothing against red-heads, but somehow they aren't my type of romantic guy._


	14. Coffin

_A/N: Here's a speedy update. Go me. Hope to see you people's reviews (Erk. Grammatically incorrect.) My friend Carroll-Lynn almost cried when I said Erik had temporarily moved out of my closet to visit Bergerac. However, I did it out of the goodness of my heart. Hope you are enjoying my darling Phantom. _

Giry did not weep. Not today, not for the husband who was no longer. Armand, after three years of a difficult, tear-filled marriage had passed on. She was dressed in her finest funeral-wear, what she had dressed in for her meeting with Erik. The veil was cast down over her eyes, so the other mourners could not see her alleged tears. Meg trailed behind her, learning to walk clumsily, dressed in a prim little black dress with black stockings and shoes. She was the only one to cry for the departure of Armand. Giry tried to be supportive, but she wished she could divulge the truth to Meg, but was afraid it would break her heart that her mother had lied to her all these years.

Giry caught a glimpse of Cecile in one of the pews; the girl was silently crying tears of real remorse.

"Idle slut." Muttered Giry, contempt spilling from her lips. And yet she understood why Armand had left her for the girl with the long, blonde hair and a prominent bosom. She herself had continued her soiree with Erik while she was married, trying not to succumb to fits of passion. But now she was a young widow, and could do what she pleased.

She continued to parade behind the coffin, and sat down in the front pew. She allowed Meg to sit in her lap, and she bounced her gently to rid the child of her tears. Meg, however, bawled uncontrollably, fully aware that her mother was trying to stop her from crying.

The ceremony continued on, and Giry even felt one single tear of remorse fall from her face. But near the end she allowed the coffin to be taken to the graveyard without her. She was too distraught; she lied to the priest, and made the Sign of the Cross obediently. Meg struggled against her, telling Giry that she wanted to wish her father farewell

"Please Mama…" Meg wept. "Please…"

"No, darling." Whispered Giry. "We must both have rest."

She kissed the girl's brow silently, bowed to the altar and made her way from the church, solemnly placing a hand on the coffin before she left.

With trepidation she made her way back to her house, and set Meg down in her bed.

"Stay still Meg." She whispered. "And sleep, darling angel."

She began to throw her belongings into a large carpetbag, and packed another small bag with a few of Meg's dolls and her own clothing. She made her bed calmly and changed into some more sensible clothes. She wrapped Meg securely in her coat and took Meg's hand in hers. With one final glance around the house she left, locking the door securely behind her.

"Mama?" asked Meg. "Where are we going?"

"You must begin your training at the Opera Populaire." Said Giry tersely. "As you are now of age."

"The Opera?" asked Meg. "But isn't it…" she trailed off into silence.

"Isn't it what?" asked Giry curiously.

"Haunted?" Meg finished.

"Those are just rumors. Where did you hear them?"

"One of the women passing by talked about a few deaths." Said Meg unfazed.

"Did they now?" asked Giry.

"They were very pretty ladies." Remarked Meg. "I should like to be like one of them when I grow up."

"Maybe you shall be." Said Giry.

"But Papa shall never see me." Meg said mournfully. "I will be a lady for nothing."

"Maybe Papa shall come to you again, and watch you from heaven." Giry said soothingly.

"I hope so." Meg said slowly, and then was silent.

"And I shall resume my position as prima ballerina." Giry whispered.

She walked into the Opera Populaire and straight to Poligny's office. The man was sitting writing out important documents, financial details that mattered a great deal to him. He looked haggard and Giry noticed that he looked more tired and decrepit than of late. Perhaps he had aged a great deal while she was away. The deaths had probably contributed a great deal to it. _Erik, _she thought _He does wreak a lot of havoc on one place_. But she smiled and managed to greet Poligny courteously with a curtsey.

"Madame Jules!" he cried in a frenzy of joy and desperation. "I am so glad to see you back!"

"Indeed it is a pleasure." Giry replied eloquently. "I have come to return to the post of prima ballerina."

"Actually, that position has been filled by a very nice girl." Said Poligny, stressing the word 'girl'. "She dances like a lark!"

"Really?" Giry raised an eyebrow in skepticism.

"However," Poligny finished quickly, sensing Giry's temperament, "I would be glad if you filled the post."

"It is of no concern to me." She said dismissively. "I shall fill any post you wish."

"We are looking, actually, for a ballet mistress. As you are quite experienced, it would be fitting for you to fill the post."

"That would be quite suitable for me." Agreed Giry. "What is the monthly pay?"

"Same as always." Said Poligny. "As it was when you were prima."

"Many thanks." Said Giry. She began to walk out of the office, when Poligny stopped her suddenly.

"Oh, Madame Jules, why have you returned?"

"My husband is dead, and I must raise my child in the style that I see best. She shall be a ballerina."

"My condolences." Said Poligny, "What is the name and age of your child?"

"Marguerite Erika Giry. She is three years of age."

"Good, good." Said Poligny. "You may be established in the same dormitories you filled in previous years."

"Thank you." Said Giry.

She made her way with Meg into the dormitories that she was so familiar with. The_ corps du ballet_ looked at her askance, but then they realized who she was.

"Giry!" squealed one of the girls, who was now about fourteen. She ran up to hug her, and Giry received the force, which knocked against her ribcage.

"Sorry," she said, stuttering. "I don't recall…"

"Nicolette." Said the girl. "Remember, I was the one who asked about the dancing."

"Ah, yes." Said Giry.

The others grumbled silently, as Giry looked them over. There were a few old faces, haggard and careworn, some still retaining their beauty. A few of them were new, and scared. She gave them all a reassuring nod.

"Whoever is prima ballerina step forward." She commanded in a rich voice.

The young Nicolette backed up and whispered.

"Giry, I am prima ballerina now." She said slowly.

"Then I shall act as your ballet mistress to all of you. However, I will delay rehearsals until tomorrow at noonday. We shall work each day for three hours."

She allowed the ballet rats to disperse, but Nicolette still hung around.

"Giry, who did you marry?" she asked.

"It is not your place to ask such questions." She said severely.

"I apologize." Said Nicolette weakly, unused to such force from Giry.

She retreated to her own bed, and looked over huffily at Giry.

"Old bat." She muttered under her breath.

Giry went from the ballet rats' dormitories and into her private room. There she laid Meg on the bed, helping her to change into a downy, white nightgown.

"Goodnight Mama." Said Meg calmly.

"Goodnight, Meg." Said Giry with a kiss on the girl's forehead.

"Why are you not coming to bed?" asked Meg in a voice almost reminiscent of Armand's.

"I have a bit of business to attend to." Explained Giry quietly. "But I will be back soon."

"Alright." The little girl said, with confidence.

Giry tiptoed out of the room and closed the door securely behind her. She heard Meg's muted breathing behind her, and she relaxed. The child would not stir until daybreak. With one look around, she stealthily crept from the dormitories and made her way down to the catacombs like she had ages ago.

She stepped into the gondola lightly and floated gently to the shores of Erik's lair. He was not to be seen, and she wandered around the small cavern, skulking quietly. Then he emerged from his bedroom, having played with the silk sheets innumerable times. He was dressed in his usual garb, a burgundy, embroidered vest hiding beneath his coat and cape. He hid his face with his white mask, and held a rose deftly in his left hand.

"Antoinette." He said. "Why are you here?"

"Armand has passed away." Said Giry. "I can be with you. Forever."

For a minute she stood staring, then rushed forward into Erik's arms and hugged him tightly. Tears began to stream from her eyes.

"I…never…" she sobbed. "Thought…that I…would ever be with you…again. I love you."

Her arms held him tighter, and he stroked her hair.

"My darling," he said sweetly, his voice crooning melodiously. "I always hoped we would be together again. Like we were before. I adore you."

Tears leaked from his own eyes and he turned ashamedly away to wipe them off his face. Then he handed the rose to Giry, and kissed her timidly.

"I have missed you." He said slowly. "You are like music. I am devoid of life without you."

"Erik," she began. "Ever since I ran away, I have wanted to be with you."

"You are with me forever." Erik promised.

They hugged again, and soon Giry kissed Erik's mouth with joy. He returned it with bliss, and the two kissed until they were in the bedroom. Erik continued to kiss Giry, and the pair fell on the bed. She broke off, and through her tears began to laugh.

"Erik," she whispered. "I love you."

"I adore you." He said huskily.

And for the next few hours they made love to each other, both burning with passion they had not felt for years.

_A/N: Will Meg ever find out the truth about her father? Will Erik and Giry make their final vows? Will Christine ever come into the picture? You'll have to wait and see…_


	15. Lost and Found

_A/N: And I'm back! Thanx to all the lovely people who make this phic a reality: QueenChick, TheQueenSarah, MadameGiryMiranda, Bergerac and JenValjean24601. It is all greatly appreciated. (And a special thanks to everyone I missed. Love you too!) Hope to see reviews and will give everybody a brownie if they do. I changed my pen name, for some bizarre reason. Hope nobody is irked. **Disclaimer: Do not own POTO. **_

**To JenValjean24601: **In answer to your question(s), I actually started my personal ballet training at the age of three, and my mother's business (piano, visual art, and ballet combined) allows people to enroll at this age. Yes, I have reread my last chapter of this phic, and have realized that Meg talks with an uncharacteristic eloquence. I will try to fix it. Also, about my other fic, _A Letter of Gorbeau_, don't expect it to reappear for quite a long time. The characterization peeved me a bit and also the plot wasn't going anywhere. But expect something interesting about Javvie to pop up soon…

**Now on to the actual story **

Giry rested her head against Erik's chest, and kissed his face. He brushed her hair languidly with his hand, and cupped her chin in his hands.

"Antoinette." He said, "At last I am with you."

"And I with you." She said and curled up against him.

The dawn light streamed into Meg's dormitory, and she screamed.

"Mama!" she screeched horribly. "Mama!"

In a ragged nightgown she ran from her bed to the other ballet girls' dormitories, and aroused Nicolette.

"Nic." She said, her feverish and young tongue wrapping inadequately around her name. "Nic. Where is Mama?"

The girl collapsed in a fit of crying, her brownish-blonde hair tousled. Nicolette took the girl in her arms and cradled her, trying to calm her although she was as worried as the small child.

"I don't know Meg," she whispered. "But she will come back."

"Please…" Meg whispered. "I want my Mama."

Nicolette held her tenderly, allowing the child's tears to mingle with her own. The other ballet rats woke up, and some growled in disgust at the child's weeping.

"Honestly," said one. "I wanted to get some sleep. If this infant won't stop bawling I'll rip her head off."

Nicolette looked at the girl contemptuously, snarling in rage.

"You be quiet." She said forcefully. "Madame Giry is gone."

"Hooray!" screeched the one girl, disturbing the other girls.

"What is going on?" Said the second eldest, Fiona. "Nicolette, what is it?"

"Madame is gone." She said, stifling her own cries. "I don't know where she is."

"Perhaps…" Fiona's voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Perhaps what?" interjected Nicolette. "If you have anything to say, Fiona, say it!"

"Maybe it was the Opera Ghost."

At this Meg howled and pushed her head into Nicolette's chest.

"No Mama…" she screamed. "NO!"

"Meg," Nicolette said, trying to regain her composure. "Meg, your Mama will be fine."

Fiona went herself and soothed Meg by hugging her gently.

"Madame will be safe." She said smoothly. "Have no fear, Meg Giry."

Meg nodded, and let her arms wrap around Fiona's neck.

Giry, meanwhile, suddenly remembered her daughter in a paroxysm of terror.

"Good God!" she said. "Erik, please, darling, I must go."

She raced from the bed and pulled on her black taffeta dress. Erik got dressed himself, although not panicking, and kissed Giry swiftly.

"My duty to my daughter calls me." Said Giry quickly. "But I will return in due course."

She stepped hurriedly into the gondola and began to push it with feverish strokes.

"Meg," she sobbed. "She must be terrified."

The ballet mistress rushed up the stairs, across the stage and into the dormitories, where a vision of chaos could be seen.

Meg was sobbing, clutching Nicolette and Fiona's dresses with a vise-like grip. Some of the ballet rats were dancing a barbaric waltz, thumping their feet grotesquely against the floor, to a chant of 'Giry is gone! Giry is gone!'. Nicolette was perplexed; tears welled in her eyes and flowed freely down her cheeks. Fiona looked terrified; assuring Meg there was no Opera Ghost. Giry managed to regain her self-control in a matter of minutes.

"Enough!" she yelled, her voice hoarse and demanding.

The girls stopped their dancing and Nicolette, Fiona and Meg looked up in relief. Meg ran to her mother, the tears running down her face.

"Mama!' she cried.

"Meg!" Giry exclaimed in return.

She held her daughter to her chest and murmured words of contentment.

"If I may," said Nicolette slowly. "May I ask what happened, Madame?"

"It is none of your concern. What I do with my life is my own business." She said tersely, hiding her soiree with Erik. "But," she said slowly. "Thank you, Mademoiselle, for looking after my child. My apologies." She laid a hand on Nicolette's shoulder, and dismissed her silently.

Then Giry went about her business, saying to the ballet rats:

"Now you must practice. None of you shall dance well otherwise."

The girls resignedly went out to the barre and began to do their plies and tendues.

Meg went back and laid her head on her pillow.

"Mama?" she asked when Giry entered their small room. "Is there an Opera Ghost?"

Giry sat down on the child's bed and looked at her tearfully. She longed to tell Meg that there was, a man called Erik, her father. But in her heart she knew she couldn't, and so resigned herself by placing a firm hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"There is no Opera Ghost." She said simply. "But there is an Angel."

_A/N: Sorry about the shortness of the chapter. More things left to come...dun dun dun. The next chapter will announce all the brownie-winners. Oh, and Bergerac, I want Erik back. Now. _


	16. Heavy Heart and Heavy Hand

_A/N: And the brownie winners are: Queen-Chick, JenValjean, Bergerac, and last but certainly not least MadameGiryMiranda. Congrats to all. _**Disclaimer: Do not own POTO. And Erik has returned to my closet : does happy dance : **

_Five years later_

Erik sat at his piano, having recently made love to an overworked but thoroughly passionate Giry. She had left him to muse and to brush one solitary tear from his face. His heart ached for the woman and her secrets. Secrets of his daughter's parentage. Giry had not told Meg the truth, and it hurt him with the same force as it did her. He took out a beautiful pen and a long piece of yellowing paper. He would tell everything to Meg, whether Giry wanted him to or not. He dimmed the candles in his lair, and wrote out a letter with a heavy hand.

_Dear Mlle. Marguerite Erika Giry,_

_No doubt you have learnt much about the superstitions of the alleged Opera Ghost. I am here to tell you that he does exist. Your mother, Antoinette Giry, has probably also told you that Armand Jules was indeed your true father. This is a lie. Do not think ill of me to say this, but I am your true father. Do not think ill of your mother. She was trying to protect your innocence and preserve you from harm. I do not have a perfect reputation, it has been scandalous, and obviously she wanted you to have no part in it. _

_But believe me when I tell you that I love you. Since I saw your pretty face I have fairly fallen in love with you. Meg, you have such grace that bequeaths a queen, and when you laugh it is like the music of church bells. Also let it be known that your mother thinks the world of you, and she adores you with her whole heart. _

_If you feel open to visiting me, your mother will no doubt show you the way down to my home. Hopefully when you are a little bit older, Mama and I can renew our love and bring forth a union between us both. In the meantime, you must settle for visiting me every so often. I do not decree it, but would find indescribable joy in seeing your face._

_With fondest regards, darling daughter,_

_O.G. _

_Post Scriptum: I beg you not to hide this letter from your mother, as she will be able to explain the situation much more fully than I. _

With deft hands he folded the letter and placed it inside an envelope. He then made an indent onto the wax with the imprint of a red skull. He did not address it, as he believed it might fall into the wrong hands. With the silence of a cat he stalked up the passageway in the back of his bedroom, and flitted towards the ballet girls' dormitories.

Giry, meanwhile, had donned more decent clothing and had taken Meg out in a carriage. The honorable M. Daae, a great friend of hers, had recently passed away. He had left his only daughter, Christine Katerina, in the care of Madame Giry. The girl was said to be the same age as Meg, and naturally Giry hoped the girls would become voracious playmates. Christine was said to have been pretty, with azure eyes and long brown hair. The Daaes' house was by the sea, and Giry had a long way to go to get there.

Erik stalked down to the rooms of the _corps du ballet_. Most of the girls were rehearsing in the theatre, the barre being in use. Silently Erik walked along the rafters, jumping to and fro from different ropes. Then he made his way to Meg's private room, and placed the letter beneath her pillow, shielding it from any prying eyes.

Giry and Meg alighted from the carriage in front of a battered house by the sea. Giry curtsied politely to the maid, explaining the situation while holding onto Meg's hand tightly.

"Poor child." Chided the maid, "She was only eight when M. Daae died."

"Mine was only three." Mumbled Giry. "But no matter, where is the child?"

"In her room." Said the maid, gesturing quietly down the hallway.

Giry entered the room, finding a solitary child packing hurriedly.

"Oh." Said the girl. "You must be Madame."

"Oui." Replied Giry. "I have come to take care of you."

"Merci." Said the girl, and curtsied.

"This is my daughter, Meg." Explained Giry. "No doubt you will become the very best of friends."

Christine eyed Meg warily, and Meg with as much trepidation eyed the strange girl in front of her.

"Hello." Meg muttered.

"Hello." Christine replied.

"Well, we must be off." Said Giry, interrupting the silence that was almost palpable. "Let me take your luggage, child."

She held out a firm hand to Christine, and the girl gave her some of her bags.

"My name is Christine." Said the girl. "Christine Katerina."

"I like the name." said Meg, lisping, "It is very pretty."

"Thank you." Replied Christine with the charisma of a duchess. "You can call me Christine Katenka, if you wish."

"Kat." Simplified Meg.

"Kat." Repeated Christine, and smiled.

The two girls watched each other with timid liking. Giry bid the maid thanks, then helped the girls into the carriage.

When they arrived back, Meg was in a whirlwind. She and Christine had discussed so many things. Christine said she wanted to be in the Opera, and Meg had wanted to prima ballerina. They both liked the sleeves on ladies' dresses, and also starlit nights. Indeed, they had many things in common, and when Christine had told Meg about Raoul fetching her scarf, both girls had exploded into a peal of giggles.

"He will be your husband." Said Meg cheerfully. "In a house by the sea."

The two girls ran into the theatre and collapsed upon Meg's bed. But Giry ushered Christine to her own room, and Meg felt the letter underneath her pillow. She opened it, and suddenly her face was crestfallen. Tears began to well up in her eyes.

"Mama." She whispered. She ran to her mother, with such a soulful look that Giry abandoned Christine to finish unpacking.

"Meg, what is it?" she asked concernedly.

"This." The little girl brandished the letter. "Read it."

Giry's eyes skimmed over the letter, and her heart went into her throat.

"Meg, come with me." She said slowly, and traipsed across the stage to a hidden trapdoor leading to the Phantom's lair.


	17. Death of Innocence

_A/N: Thanks to all my devoted reviewers. I had to give Christine a Russian name (too much Tolstoy). It just suited her, as ballet started predominantly in Russia. Just so you peeps know, I am skipping my English Lit. homework (something I never do) and also rushing since I have to go trick-or-treating with my little sister. So yeah, feel lucky that I am writing this at all. _

Meg held onto her mother's hand, and trembled from fear.

"Mama?" she asked. "Where are we going?"

"To visit your father." Said Giry, almost complacently.

"My Papa is dead." Said Meg indignantly.

"No he is not." Said Giry firmly, laying a hand on Meg's head. "Be silent, Marguerite, and do not speak of what you do not understand."

Meg was silent, holding her tongue obediently. Giry felt the walls with a quivering hand, the damp sliding along her fingers. There were no candles lit, and the cobwebs hung gracefully in the sconces. She spied the gondola and helped Meg into it. Giry got in as well, and pushed it elegantly to the opposite bank. Erik was nowhere to be seen, and Giry was glad of this.

"Marguerite." She whispered. "Stay put."

Meg stood stalk still on the bank, her arms firmly by her sides like a soldier. Giry stalked into Erik's bedroom, to find him dozing comfortably. Resolutely she poked him in the side, and watched him with frightful eyes.

"Antoinette." He said slowly, donning his mask quickly. "Why are you here, _ma belle ange_?"

"Because." Giry said, brandishing the letter in his face. "Of this."

"Antoinette." He said. "You do not understand. Meg is of a good age. She has a right to know, everything."

He leapt out of bed and put on his cape over his black jacket. The ruffles of the white shirt peeked elegantly from behind his burgundy vest.

"I desire you to speak with her." Said Giry. "And tell her the story."

"But I clearly said in the post scriptum…" Erik said. "That you would explain."

"You thought wrong." Said Giry. "But since you appear to be prepared, Erik, do so."

"You understand nothing, Antoinette." He said forcefully. "I need your support. She is your child."

"Yes." Giry said resignedly. "I just wanted some peace."

"When you are with me." Said Erik. "How can you ever hope of finding peace?"

Giry agreed by sighing, and took her lover's hand tenderly in her own.

"That is why I am with you." She said. "I need to taste life."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and pulled back the curtain of his bedroom.

"Marguerite." She said. "This is Erik. He is your father."

Meg remained silent for awhile, and then, with a quick, reproving glance from her mother, curtsied to Erik politely.

"My pleasure, Monsieur." She said sweetly, her tone almost sickening.

"You shall not refer to me as Monsieur." Said Erik. "Call me Papa." The word sounded odd on his tongue, this being the only time he had uttered it.

"Papa." Meg herself tasted the word again, and recoiled in derision. "Papa," she began. "Why do you hide your face?"

"It is none of your concern." Said Erik dismissively.

"Show her." Said Giry. "And Marguerite, do not recoil. This is your true father."

Erik lifted the mask off silently and stood facing Meg. She let out a slight gasp, but nothing more. She merely looked on with a steady gaze. Then her hands clenched at her sides and she began to cry.

"It isn't fair!' she screamed at Giry. "You lie to me! Then you force this…this…beast upon me, like I was supposed to love him!"

She continued to yell at her parents with renewed strength.

"I cannot love him! He is not my father! Armand was my father!"

"Armand," Giry said steadily, the anger boiling in every word. "Was a lying, cheating man who had no thought for either of us."

"That is not true!" screamed Meg, "Armand, Papa, loved me!"

"Your mother is right, child." Said Erik heavily. "Armand did lie to you and hurt your mother. There is no use in denying it."

He replaced his mask and turned with a flourish of his cape. He then spoke slowly to Meg.

"I am not asking you to love me. That is too far-fetched even for my delusional thinking. You can hate me, mock me, spit in my face and I won't recoil, God knows I am used to it. All I ask is for you to understand your mother's thinking and to acknowledge me as your father. I want no more than that."

Meg stood listening silently. Erik continued on:

"Your mother and I were in love. We gave our souls to each other, and cared for each other. She loves me still, and I do as well. This you must accept. If not, I want no part in your life."

Meg said nothing, her tears steadily drying.

"I can accept." She said, her voice faltering. "But I want nothing to do with you."

Erik nodded silently and resignedly.

"That I can understand." He said shortly. "Antoinette, let that suffice as our agreement."

Giry herself turned away from her daughter and kissed Erik mutely on the lips.

"Goodbye, _mon beau ange_." She said in a whisper. "I love you."

"I love you too." Said Erik quietly.

Giry took Meg by the hand, and, to Meg's surprise, did not reprimand her. She merely stepped into the gondola, and began to push it back to its usual dock.

Meg did not speak to her mother, and neither to Christine. She went to her room and lay on the bed. No tears spilled out, but her thoughts of her parents were dark. Never had she felt such revulsion.

_A/N: I guess Meg is about ten or eleven, despite the 'five years later' part from the last chapter. She just sounded too mature for eight. So it really should read 'seven years later'. Oi, this is so bloody confusing. Hope you enjoyed. _


	18. Why Must Things Be As They Are?

_A/N: Hey hey hey. I'm back! YAY! Hope you guys all liked the last chapter. Who knows what'll happen between the Phantom and Christine? We'll just have to wait and see…_**Disclaimer: Do not own POTO. Erik lives in my closet, however. **

Giry, in the lonely hours of the dawn, left the two girls sleeping in their private rooms. Meg was sleeping fitfully, but she and Giry had forgiven each other long before. Giry, however, knew that Meg utterly despised Erik, and silent tears ran down her cheeks. Maybe she shouldn't have married Armand. Maybe things would have been better.

She scurried down into the catacombs, and into Erik's bedroom. He was writing a short piece by his ebony piano, at times sounding out the chords so he could hear what his passion truly sounded like. Giry said nothing, but came up to him and planted a kiss on the back of his neck.

"Erik." She murmured. "I am so sorry. I thought that Meg would react differently."

"She reacted according to her personal beliefs." He said. "I cannot blame her for that. I myself never accepted my mother, and thus her reaction to me was understandable."

"And yet I was trying to do her some good." Said Giry sadly.

"It may not seem good now." Admitted Erik. "But it could change for the better."

"Meg will open her heart to you." Assured Giry. "All in time."

"Maybe this will heal you." He whispered, and pushed a black velvet box into Giry's hands.

"Erik…" she said. "_Mon beau ange_. What is it?"

She opened the box and found inside a ring of pure gold with a sapphire that matched the same hue as Erik's eyes.

"Dear God." She whispered.

"Antoinette," he said calmly. "I wish you to be my wife."

Her heart went into her throat, and she hugged him.

"Erik." She whispered, and tears began to spill from her eyes. "I do. Ever since I was young I had wanted to be your wife."

She kissed him innocently and sat down beside him.

"I used to pray.'' She admitted. "That God would grant me a union with you."

"You have no idea how long I have delayed in asking you." He explained. "Even before our first, soiree, so to speak." He winked coyly at Giry and she laughed. "I had wanted you to be mine."

"Then why didn't you ask?" she said, exasperated.

"Rejection has always pained me." He replied. "Since my birth I was an outcast."

"You shall be an outcast no longer." Giry whispered. "I love you."

"I love you." Murmured Erik, and caressed her hair.

"But what about Meg?" Giry mused. "How will she cope?"

"We shall have to break the news to her." Said Erik. "Gently, though. She need not attend the ceremony."

"Ceremony?" stuttered Giry.

"Private." Said Erik. "The two of us."

Giry nodded, happy that the two would not be married in front of everybody.

"How will you disguise your identity?" she asked plainly.

"The marriage shall not be a matter of public record."

"Then who shall perform the ceremony?"

"That I leave to you."

Giry smiled, and gave a slight, inward laugh. Erik was so meticulous in many things, and so hasty and unprepared with others. She gave him another kiss, this time deeper and more passionate. Erik sighed and wrapped his arms delicately around her waist. She was so beautiful. Giry broke away, and retreated from the catacombs.

"Goodbye, _mon ange_ ." she whispered.

Erik watched her form as she made the way up the stairs, and let out an exultant sigh.

Meg and Christine, meanwhile, were playing upstairs.

"Is there an Opera Ghost?" asked Christine curiously. "The ballet girls think there is."

"I think so." Said Meg good-naturedly, pushing the recent events behind her.

"They say he kills." Said Christine. "Is that true?"

"Yes. Mama says there have been terrible deaths. Most people end up hanged."

"Oh!" shrieked Christine in a paroxysm of terror. "How dreadful!"

"But they say the Ghost doesn't hurt you as long as you are good-natured and talented. Myself, I know I will soon be prima ballerina."

Christine said nothing. She was having terrible difficulty performing in the ballet, as she had such little training.

"Maybe I will be prima donna." Said Christine wistfully. "Father taught me how to sing back by the sea."

"Well, let's hear it then." Said Meg.

Christine let out one lone note that wavered in the air. It was neither pretty nor ugly; her voice was still untrained. But, Meg seemed pleased, and applauded Christine with a satisfied air.

"Bravissima!" she cried. "You have a pretty voice. No doubt you could be prima donna one day."

Giry then entered the room, and came and knelt beside Meg.

"Meg," she whispered. "I need to speak with you."

Meg obediently followed after her mother and listened to her explanation.

"Meg, your father has proposed marriage to me." She said. "You have no obligation to come to the ceremony."

"I will honor my father's name." she said coolly. "And come, but no more."

"That will do, Marguerite." Said Giry equally as coldly. "But you must accept your father."

"I accept him." She said. "To be the foul man who ruined my innocence."

"Marguerite Erika Giry!" Giry hissed. "How dare you speak like that about your father!"

"I feel no shame." She said huffily, and walked away from Giry. Then she turned and spat back to her: "That bastard ruined your own life, mother, do not try to deny it."

Giry trembled in abject humiliation.

"I am the get of a man with no name." Meg continued on. "A murdering traitor who seduced you into loving him."

"That is wrong." Said Giry sternly, shaking from rage. "I was the seductress. I should be blamed. Go ahead, Marguerite, and place your scorn on my back! God knows I deserve it!"

Meg stood in silence for awhile. Giry continued with her narrative:

"You do not, will not, ever know what it is like!" she screamed at her, and threw the ring down at her feet so that it escaped from the box and bounced across the floor. "I raise you, the fruit of my womb, I hide it so that you will not be disgraced, I love you Marguerite. And this is how you repay me? And then my lover, Erik, he threatened me Marguerite, with death! Oh, you do not understand, to see a dreadful noose hanging in front of those eyes, those eyes full of hatred and love. And then, then he kisses you, and you make love to him out of fright! Pure, sheer fright! And yet you love him still, for he is the tender angel of your childhood dreams. But he remains a murderer, who killed the one girl who was kind to you. Who will kill again. You have no idea Marguerite, no idea."

Giry then collapsed to the floor and began to weep. Meg hurriedly picked up the ring and brought it to her, allowing her to clasp it in her hand.

"Mama," she whispered. "I am sorry. For everything. "

"Leave me." She said slowly. "I want to find some peace."

Meg hesitated.

"Go!" screamed Giry through her tears. She watched Meg leave, and then sat silently on the floor. "And yet I love you both." She murmured. "And would give my life for you."

_A/N: See that small button? Use it. And also, welcome and thanks to Snarky.Kitty. Pleasure to have you aboard. _


	19. No Backward Glances

_A/N: Hello and welcome everyone! Thanks to QueenChick, Bergerac, and Snarky.Kitty.Dahlinz for their excellent and heartfelt feedback. Much appreciated, as always. _**Disclaimer: Don't sue. Not mine. **

It was in the early morning that Christine Daae could be heard singing in her room. It was a mournful tune, but made less so by her infantile, untrained voice. The Phantom heard her. Her voice did not displease him, but it did not make him weep from its quality. He heard her while he was walking in between the walls, and stopped to listen. A sudden inspiration came to him

"I am your Angel." He whispered slowly through the walls. Christine stopped singing on account of her fright. "Come to me, child."

"Papa?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"No." he said. "I am not your father. I am the Angel of Music."

Christine closed her eyes and dimly remembered what her father had said on his deathbed. A melancholy violin chord began to descend upon her, and the Phantom smirked with glee.

"Come to your Angel." He said delicately.

She searched the room for his form, but found nothing.

"Please, show yourself." She commanded.

"It is not your place." He growled. "To ask such favors."

Christine fell silent and trembled horribly.

"Yes. Angel." She said with trepidation.

Erik's voice resumed a curt and lecturing tone.

"You are to tell no one of my presence." He said. "Keep it a secret hidden within you. You are to come here every night at seven o'clock precisely. I will therefore instruct you in the art of the voice. You are to obey me."

Christine gave a muted 'yes' and Erik smiled greedily.

"You may go." He snarled.

Christine left the room and Erik listened to her fading footsteps. He then turned on his heel and walked down into the catacombs. He snickered lightly and mused.

"What a fool I am." He said, "To think that this child will listen to me. Such are whims, they pass in the length of a second."

He went farther down into the catacombs and sat on his bed. Giry soon entered.

"_Mon ange_." She said. "I have marvelous news."

"What is it?" he asked.

"A priest shall indeed oversee our wedding."

"Who is he?" Erik asked.

"The man who married me and Armand." Explained Giry. "He is very kind, and he agreed to marry us without public record of the marriage."

"How did you convince him?" asked Erik.

"I said it was a union for our own private purposes and that it was a matter of young love."

"Neither of us is young." Said Erik, to which Giry looked at him stonily, but in a comical way. "My apologies, _ma cherie_." He said, and laughed. "You are as beautiful as the day I first met you."

"I have also set the date." Continued Giry. "December 12th. It is a Sunday."

"Will our daughter attend?" asked Erik.

This question apparently was too much for Giry. Tears began to streak across her face and soon she was sobbing at Erik's feet.

"But Antoinette." He said, cradling her in his arms. "What is it?"

"She hates me, Erik. And she hates you. She said the…the…worst things about both of us. But she is young, she doesn't understand."

"What exactly did she say?" asked Erik as he kissed the top of her head.

"She said that you were a bastard who ruined my life." She whispered. "She said that your were a murdering traitor. She said she was ashamed of me. Erik, why?"

"She will never love me." Said Erik sadly. "But that is how life is. Do not dwell on it Antoinette. It will come to pass. I have learnt my lesson for dwelling on the past. But what your daughter said was true."

"Erik!" cried Giry. "_Mon beau ange_, you must never say that!" she hugged him. "I love you, I swear. You are not a murderous bastard."

"Then what am I, Antoinette?"

Giry looked up at him, her eyes full of tears.

"You are my only friend." She said slowly. "And for that I am thankful."

Giry gave him one despairing kiss and lay down beside him on the bed.

"Someday," she said to him. "I will take you outside, and you will see the stars. They are beautiful Erik, so beautiful."

"They will never be as beautiful as you." Said Erik, his voice melodious. He kissed her cheek and wiped away the tears.

The next month Giry dressed herself primly in a beautiful, flowing, royal blue organdy gown. She let her brown hair fall down in lustrous locks to her waist, and combed it through, twisting a rose through her hair. Before she left she went to Meg's room.

"Come, Marguerite." She said sadly. "We must be on our way."

"Mama," said Meg, "I cannot come. I cannot see you marry…my father."

"Do not feel any shame." Said Giry slowly. "You may stay here. But do not expect to see me for a few days. Be a good girl, and take care of Christine."

"Yes, Mama. I wish you well." She said this impassively.

"Goodbye, Marguerite." She said, and gave her daughter a hug. "You will understand in time."

She went out from the Opera Populaire and jumped into a fiacre. A single tear raced down her face, and she felt both joy and trepidation. She was to marry her lover, finally, but wondered what would transpire if she did.

Erik himself had ventured out into the city of Paris, cunningly disguised with a white mask and wrapped in his black cloak. Despite his usual confident self, he was shaky from nervousness. He did not know if he had made the right choice in marrying Giry.

But the pair eventually met at the church, and both looked at each other shyly, both acting as if they were virgins. Giry dared not look into Erik's eyes and he held his face ashamedly away from her. Erik took his position at the front of the church quietly, and Giry resumed her position at the back. She veiled herself and walked down the aisle with the distant chords of _Ave Maria_ playing from the organ pit. She stood beside her beloved, and murmured the words of union with a soft whisper. Erik followed suit, until the priest had finished his benediction.

"You may kiss the bride." He said solemnly, and Erik gently lifted Giry's veil so he could see her face. Tears were streaming from her eyes.

"My love," he whispered so only she could hear. "Do not cry."

With one askance look at the priest, he kissed her and took in the taste of her lips and her perfume. She adored the feeling of his arms cradling him, and kissed feverishly back. He turned his back on the priest and lifted her so she was cradled in his arms, and, carrying her, he ran from the church.

In silence the pair boarded a fiacre and drove back to the Opera Populaire. Tenderly, Erik helped Giry out of the fiacre and then with a wave of his hand dismissed the carriage. He opened up a small door in the side of the opera house, and took Giry down into the catacombs, to his lair.

When in his home, Giry kissed him silently, and pleaded with her eyes to be led to the bedroom. Erik obeyed, and laid her down soothingly like they had so many years before.

"Sweet intoxication." She whispered. "Is ours to hold and to share."

"The music of the night is forever ours." He replied, and kissed her passionately.

She said nothing, but undressed herself coyly, and he followed suit. They finally felt whole, and each was in a paroxysm of bliss.

_A/N: Maybe more Christine-ness in the next chapter. Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review. _


	20. Children of the Seine

_A/N: Much thanks to all my faithful reviewers: The-Lady-Miranda-Van-Tassel, Bergerac, JenValjean, Snarky.Kitty, and MadameGiryMiranda. You guys make this phic a reality. Many blessings upon you. _**Disclaimer: No more mine than yours. But Erik resides quite peacefully in my closet. **

_A/N: A further note to JenValjean: Never fear, all will be explained. _

Erik felt Giry's arms wrap around him in her sleep. He lifted her head and kissed her lips silently. Giry stirred a little in her slumber, but did not wake. Erik said nothing, but placed a hand on her naked shoulder, and shook her a little. She awoke with a start.

"Erik," she said. "What is it?"

"It's nothing." He murmured, and turned ashamedly away. "I just needed to see your eyes."

She sighed, and turned over to go back to sleep.

"But _ma belle ange_," he continued. "How long do you wish to stay here?"

"Oh." Replied Giry, "In my naivety I had quite forgotten about it." She laughed a little at this. "Well, as long as you shall have me."

"I would have you forever." Said Erik lustily. "But I know that is not possible."

"A day or two." Said Giry. "My post and daughter cannot go without regard."

She kissed him and fell back against the sheets, then straightened herself and got up. She dressed herself and while doing so smiled coquettishly at Erik.

"_Mon ange_." She said, feigning shyness. "Would you be so kind as to lace my corset?"

"If you so ask,_ ma cherie_." He said, and walked up behind her and did it up, running his hands along her waist and breasts. She backed away from him and turned around. "It fits your figure." He said, "And it emphasizes it quite nicely, especially your breasts."

She giggled melodiously and kissed him with fervor.

"I agree with you, Erik." She said flirtatiously. She kissed him again, and then pulled her blue wedding gown over her head. She plaited her hair skillfully into a braid, and then pushed her feet into her shoes.

Erik got dressed as well, donning the elegant white shirt and pants, and also putting on a black mask to hide his disfiguration. He slid easily into his embroidered vest, and also into a black cloak.

"You will dine with me this morning?" he asked.

"Of course." Said Giry. "I have no intention of leaving now."

"Good." He replied, and made his way to a small table, where he usually fixed himself a sparse meal. "I do not have much,' He admitted. "Just a few croissants." Still, he put them delicately onto plates and put a small serviette on Giry's lap. "Go ahead and eat." He said slowly; as he too sat down to begin the meal.

He and Giry ate in silence, a little embarrassed over last night's affairs. Giry broke the silence suddenly.

"Erik, would you care to go out?" she said simply. "I am dying to see Paris again."

"Paris is one thing which I wish to forget." He said slowly. "But for your sake I will go."

"The Seine is exquisite in the dawn's light." Explained Giry. "And do not worry, we will not see a soul."

"That is good." He said, and finished his croissant. Giry followed suit, and then went to the bedroom.

"Come on Erik, we must go before it gets too light out." She said, and took his hand. "It is marvelous to feel the wind against your face and watch the river bubble."

"Indeed I believe you Antoinette." He said, and kissed her.

"We can stay there for hours and hours." She said excitedly. "Just the two of us."

Erik nodded, and led the way up from his lair, and the pair skirted out of the Opera Populaire. Giry led Erik to the banks of the Seine, the gray mist lifting as the early morning sunlight, pink in hue, streamed from the sky. She sat down complacently in the grass, and invited Erik to join her.

"It was so long," he admitted. "Since I have been like this. A free spirit, if you will."

"Erik!" she said, "Aren't you forgetting that you are a free spirit? The Opera Populaire itself would not be so well-liked if it wasn't for the havoc you wreak upon it!"

"I commit a fair share of the felony so gossiped about." He admitted lightly.

"And you're proud of it?" she said quizzically.

"No." he sighed heavily. "Why should I be?"

He lay down in the grass and listened to the turbulence of the river. Giry laid her head upon his chest and toyed with his shirt. She kissed his cheek delicately and fondled his hair.

"What do you think of Christine?" asked Giry suddenly.

"What do you mean what do I think of her?" asked the Phantom. "She has something of a voice, I shall grant her that. But it could be trained. In fact, I heard her on my walks about the Opera House. She had a rather flat air about her voice that irked me."

"Really?" said Giry, "I got the impression from Meg that she had a divine voice."

"Children are impressionable Antoinette." He replied. "Meg doesn't know much about the voice. But I did hear Christine say she wished to be prima donna."

"Do you think that will happen?"

"Well, it only would if she had a teacher, someone with the musical knowledge and the charisma and passion to teach her."

"Someone like you." Said Giry. "Erik, don't lie to me. Have you seen Christine?"

"Yes, I have instructed her to be taught. She needs some help in fulfilling her dream. Can't you see she's lonely, Antoinette? She seems a little lost, if you get my meaning."

"And rather simple." Said Giry. "Meg runs circles around that poor girl!"

"But if I give her that much." Continued Erik. "It will be for the better."

Giry nodded and kissed him and stroked his hair. Erik kissed her back and let his hands run down her waist.

"You are unparalleled in beauty." He said caressingly.

"And you are unrivaled in magnificence." She whispered back passionately. "I love you Erik." She whispered, and kissed him again.

The couple sat languidly by the Seine, unabashed by their openly passionate kisses. The dawn light streaked down on them, and the sunlight played on each of their smiling faces.

_A/N: Like? Hate? Adore? Loathe? Be kind and leave a review. Also, the chapter title is a play on my pen name. Chiao for now, mes amis. _


	21. Devotion Redirected

_A/N: Thanks to all of my devoted reviewers, especially both Van Tassels, JenValjean, Bergerac, and Snarky.Kitty. Much love to all of you. _**Disclaimer: Erik lives in my closet, but that's all I have…sob…**

_Six years later_

Christine's voice had become magnificent. It was no longer a wavering, warbling vibrato, but a warm, melodious and emotional mezzo-soprano. That was because she was taught by one of the best artists in the country, Erik. Ever since Erik was small he had loved the human voice, and had listened to the opera frequently. Even though his voice outstripped Christine's in brilliance, she could still make him tremble. Due to that, he admitted, he was beginning to love her.

Love, he remembered, came in many forms. There was the motherly, matronly love that he had so lacked since his birth, there was the love for king and country which he despised, and then there was the love for humankind. Humankind did not love Erik, and he only bestowed it upon the most select people. Giry had been the only one until now. He thought of Giry constantly, that radiant beauty that was beginning to grow old and wane through the infinite years. Her hair still fell in silky locks, her breasts were still voluptuous, and she had a divine personality and a gorgeous elegance. But Christine began to beguile him. Her form was so fragile, her hair so lustrous. She was a fragrant, charming nymph in a vast world of devils. But, he remembered, Giry was the one with brains, with a cruel, unfettered, divine mind that would make Voltaire weep. Christine was different. She possessed no eloquence and had not much to say. Seldom would she speak of anything but the sleeves on ladies' dresses and the way ladies held their parasols. In truth, their conversations bored him, but he was lusting after her. He wanted to taste young flesh again.

He built a porcelain model of her, dressed it in a wedding gown, and hid it from Giry's eyes. He began to write an opera, _Don Juan_, which was his secret concealed on paper. And yet he caressed Giry and made love to her, and he knew that she still loved him with that now-ancient fervor. And in a way he loved her devotedly, but constantly watched Christine's form out of his wary eyes.

"_Mon beau ange_." Said Giry, "What is it?"

The pair was sitting languidly on the piano bench, Giry's arms draped around her husband.

"Nothing, _ma cherie_." He replied, writing a portion of his opera hastily.

"What are you writing? Another opera?" she asked.

"Yes." He said.

"Do you want to make a royalty off of it?" she said. "Monsieur Debienne would be happy with such a proposal. The Opera Populaire has done _The Marriage of Figaro_ three times over the course of six years! They need a new opera, particularly one with a much darker resonance and sinister plot. You have always writ these types of operas, Erik. Why not give it to me when you are finished?"

"I do not want any mortal ears to hear it, except mine." He said slowly. "It is too precious to me to put it up in public."

"I understand," said Giry lovingly, nuzzling into Erik's cape. "An artist and genius must have at least one piece of his work that remains close to his heart."

"Do you wish me to sing to you?" asked Erik.

"From what opera?" she said.

"_Juliette Lost_." Said Erik. "I must admit is has been years since I have granted you such a favor."

"Indeed it has. Sing, angel."

He did so, in a voice that made Giry ache.

_My love has died_

_What is there to pine for? _

_Love is distrustful_

_It is scandalous and shameful _

_Puts maiden girls to disgrace_

_Adulterating kisses_

_On tender brow _

_I am nothing now_

_The trees whisper in the rampant wind_

_Dead skeletons of love _

_And yet I see your everlasting form _

_And bless you from the layers of ice_

_That conceals me and hides me_

_From your long-gone embrace _

He finished, the last note blending into silence.

"Erik," murmured Giry. "Your pain and passion is so magnified…" she began and then composed herself. "But I must be going. The ballet rats are in wont of an instructor."

"I suppose they are." He sighed heavily. "You may go."

"I will return to you soon." She said, and placed a kiss on his forehead.

"Goodbye, _ma belle ange_." He whispered. "Do not be too long."

She nodded and with a turn of the heel marched diligently up the stairs leading from the catacombs.

"She still loves me," admitted Erik. "After all these precious years."


	22. Worship

_A/N: This portion is dedicated to Lady-Miranda-Van-Tassel, the only one who reviewed chapter 21! Many blessings, my dear. And to the rest of you, my inbox is getting rather empty. Please won't you fill it? _

Giry said nothing, but felt all of her emotions writhe within her like snakes. She knew Erik was not to be trusted. But not to be trusted with what? She suspected him of being unfaithful, the way he sang to her about lost love and the impassive kisses that greeted her fervent ones were the two singular clues. She knew none of the ballet rats would have a hold over him, but there was one woman with the beauty to turn mens' heads.

Meg had never turned a man's head before. She was pretty, gorgeous even, but she did not possess the flirtatious and eloquent qualities bequeathed on other young women. She followed her mother's path, she was resistant to love, and did not give in easily to anything. There was a bit of her father in Meg too. She was often very melancholy; sometimes so much that Giry could not even stand her. And she had a passion for her art, the art of dance, much like her father had a passion for his music.

She knew that the girl who had seized the Phantom's heart was Christine. That brown-eyed, brown-hair mezzo-soprano had captured his soul within her. And she did not understand why. Apart from her royal beauty, Christine had not the talent of speech that Giry was so bestowed with, nor the apparent headstrong and divine personality that had lured Erik to her. It was simply her voice and her looks.

"Erik," she hissed in a sinister tone. "That bastard!"

She was walking down the hallway when Christine appeared before her. She stopped short, and her heart leapt into her throat.

"_How dare this vile child take away my beloved? Harlot, wretch!_" Giry thought, her mind almost exploding.

"Madame," began Christine. "Might you tell me the way to rehearsals?"

"You should be old enough to figure that out, Christine." She replied icily. "Go now."

Christine eyed her warily and made off without a fuss. Giry's heart turned to lead in her breast, as she looked on Christine's retreating form with revulsion. She turned on her heel and marched back towards the catacombs. She wanted a solitary word with Erik. She walked down towards his lair, pushing the gondola with ferocious strokes. He was sitting at his piano, and did not look up when she arrived.

"How dare you!" she spat out at him, her figure trembling. "You…you…and that little, idle slut!"

"_Mon ange_…" Erik began, "Please…"

"Don't you dare call me that again!" she screamed at him. "I do everything for you, and this is how you repay me?"

"You don't understand." Said Erik quietly.

"You denied me and betrayed me." she said, her voice like ice. "Me…Erik…your wife." She said this with sarcasm and revolt.

"Indeed you are my wife." Said Erik. "And no one shall ever take your place."

"Liar!" she said, and threw her wedding ring down upon the floor, so the sapphire chipped ever so slightly, a miniscule flaw that was a burden to bear.

"Antoinette!" he cried, stealing up to take her wedding ring into his own nervous fingers. "Just let me explain."

"I want nothing more to do with you!" she said. "Unless you prove to me you truly love me."

"How shall I do that, Antoinette?" he said, "Take you to bed to resolve all the common arguments? I thought you would not stoop so low as that."

"Erik," she muttered. "I love you. Why can't you ever be happy?"

He turned away from her and began his narrative.

"Antoinette, I do love you with as much passion as I had before. But you have ceased to be a muse, an interest to me. Christine, in her movements, her voice, has presented such a beautiful opportunity for me to express my talents. She stands willingly before me, like a sacrifice I am able to manipulate, bend to my every whim. I have never had that power before."

"This does relate back to our argument years before."

"The world hates me Antoinette. I want no part in it. I want to change it."

"Erik," she said, "How many times must I tell you? I can never, will never hate you. You are too precious a gift for me to lose. To lose you would be like, trying to breathe in a vast ocean. I could not do it. Every night I thank God for bringing me to you. Even if all the world reviles you, know that I worship you."

"You have an elegance and beauty that Christine will never possess. I thank you for that. You are my soul guide through this perilous world."

Giry was calmed by his comment momentarily, but could not help but wonder if it was a mere, almost futile escape attempt from his deeper feelings. It seemed a dastardly, scathing lie that she did not know what to believe. What did he wish to hide from her?


	23. Christine Katenka

_A/N: Dedicated to Snarky.Kitty.Dahlinz, the one who commented on the symbolism between Giry's ring and her love for Erik. _**Disclaimer: Do not own POTO. But Erik, who is currently residing in my closet, is my only consolation. **

Erik fingered the ring that had often adorned Giry's pale finger. It was so dazzlingly beautiful, except for that one flaw that marred the surface.

"Antoinette." He said, "Please, come back." He buried his head in his hands and wept.

A noise stirred him, and he looked up with alarm.

"My Angel," said Christine. "What hurts you?"

"Go away." Said Erik firmly. "I do not want to look upon your face."

"Erik," Christine began. "I thought you loved me."

"I do not love you!" he shouted at her. "Leave. Now."

Tears began to brim in Christine's eyes.

"Erik, let me show you that you are beautiful." She kissed him firmly on the mouth.

"Oh you vile woman." Said Erik remorsefully. "You proclaim your love for me, but always recoil at this!" he tore off his mask and stared at Christine. She backed away with a frightened gasp.

"You see," continued Erik. "How can you, a most respectful woman, love a corpse?"

Christine, too frightened of his face, ran from his lair and up the hidden stairs. She continued to run, her breath coming out in short, sharp gasps.

"Christine," whispered a voice. "Kat, what is it?"

"Oh Meg." She said, "The story is too long, and you would not believe me."

Meg looked back at her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Come with me," she said, "And I will listen. Tell me everything."

She led Christine to the dormitories and sat her down upon the bed.

"If you would, start from the beginning."

"It happened so long ago that I do not quite recall…" Christine's voice faltered.

"Kat, do not hesitate. Do not think I will not believe you." Said Meg complacently.

"Meg, it happened when I first arrived at the Opera House. I was alone in the corridors, when suddenly I heard this voice. It was neither harsh nor loving, and it gave me strict instructions. It said I was to meet at the same place every night at seven o'clock and tell no one of my business. What could I do? I obeyed. Father always said he would send me an Angel. I suppose he did that very night. I have been instructed for six years now, and the Angel, just a year ago, has shown his face."

Christine stopped in mid-narrative and took a solitary breath. Meg laid a hand on her shoulder.

"It is horrible Meg." She said. "His face, his left side, is horribly disfigured. The bones show through, the skin is waxen. His eye is like a demon's, and there is a tormenting curl to his lip. And then the man, for I am now supposing it is a man, asks me to love him! Love him! Him, such a beast that I dare not gaze upon. And he kisses me, and feels my waist, and these simple actions tempt me. He is so passionate and quite devoted to me that I feel as if I were finally loved. He told me his name, Erik." She stopped. "But I like the name of Raoul better." She continued. "Remember Raoul, Meg? The boy who saved my scarf. He was such a pretty boy. He promised one day he would find me and sweep me in his arms. Dear God, I hope he comes to find me soon, Meg, or I shall go mad!"

"Kat, I believe you." Said Meg, "Think not on it, everything will turn for the better. You rest, I had best go and see Mama."

She tiptoed out of the room and into Giry's bedroom. Giry was lying on the bed, stony-eyed.

"Mama?" said Meg, "Can I speak with you?"

"Of course Marguerite." Said Giry. "Come in and sit with me."

"Mama, Kat spoke of Father." She said. "And consequently I have changed my views on the man."

"Is this true?" asked Giry suspiciously.

"It is Mama. He is a lonely man who is tormented by what he desires." She explained. "He wants true beauty and happiness, and is at a loss without them."

"The tides have changed Meg." Said Giry. "First, you thought him an ignorant bastard, now your opinion seems to have come off on me. My own views have run their course to you."

"He is unfavorable to you?" asked Meg.

"He flirts with Christine and uses her as a harlot." Said Giry. "Because I am old, and my beauty is lost."

"Your beauty is not gone. Think of what you have. It was not beauty that seduced him, it was your character. Kat, although possessing many good qualities, is not as intelligent as you, and probably will never be."

"It is interesting." Said Giry, "That you speak of such things. I never thought a daughter could be a mentor on love."

"It seems they can." Said Meg. "When I was little I watched your relationship, and the ups and downs, and by doing so have learned much."

"Thank you for such advice." Replied Giry. "Although I must admit you pointed out the obvious."

Meg gave a good-natured laugh at this joke.

"The obvious may seem deeper soon enough." She said.

"Keep a vigilant eye on Christine." Instructed Giry. "She needs your counseling. Poor thing, she must be hurting. Erik's love never did flow easily."

"That I will do." Said Meg, "I must rest now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Marguerite." Said Giry, and kissed her forehead. "Pleasant dreams."

_A/N: Wow, an almost entirely Erik-free chapter. Quite odd, really. I will tend to call Christine 'Kat' because of habit, as Meg is the shortened form of Marguerite, so it fits quite nicely into the story. Also, it makes for faster typing. This chapter was more of a space-filler than anything, sorry if it was disinteresting. I just had to post something before going out of my mind. _


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